Tape your fingers down,
pin them with wire and ivory,
Force your creation.

Eke it out, a winding stick with tapeworm,
a slow coax to wrinkle top lips,
pull it.

A viper, a boa, Black Mamba eye blink toxins,
suck out the words too slow, inhale it anyway. The taste of blood is progress,
Force your creation.

Don’t let it rest, or sleep. Wake it with the torch you bang along the bars, ice cold showers and bruises they can’t see.

Take out the tendons and cut off the oxygen. Hold it down until it jerks and writhes,
until it shakes and claws,
until it taps out, goes limp.

Drag it out behind the screen and beat it,
a shambleman, a crow.
Pin it down and threaten it, the syllables and pop dripping saliva in its ear.

Take it up on stage – hairbrush in hand – and talk until the music plays
the crumble and the break
the mountain peaks you escalate
work down the chain.
K2 is miles below you.

Get out the tape.


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