Monday, 6 April 2015

Eating Myself

The contemporaries
Grab handfuls of language
And pelt it at canvas. I envy
Their movements
Their fluid enhancements
Yet these fingers are dancing
Over a carcass. I take the bone
Of a sentence, peeling off prose
In its sinewy embers
As if looking
For hope. Did I mention
The glut of the grease
Which I sieve through, sitting under
My nails
 Like an intimate gesture.

I have prepared to fail
Like a special menu.
The picture, first be my heart
Remarkably tender
For it has hardly stirred. The component parts
Glitter, the life in the mirror
Plucked like a lobster
To impress the diner.

I want then to be served
On an extensive platter
Or poured into china – my tongue
And its matter. The talk, talk, talk
Of the trimmings thereafter
Hot in the string
Of individual breaths.
When that is exhausted
I will offer them health
The residual lot
Slow-cooked for flavour
And served by itself.

The cutlery does not match
But I never did either
The jaw bone bent at an angle
With receiving incisors
The eyeballs a special
That turn to you after.
There might be a layer
Of self-pity to puncture
But under, the mildness

Of innocent vision.

I once saw my hand, reaching  into the distance
And bend to a cup
For another cheekbone.

I catch the friction
Of knife or a wristwatch
Guiding me backwards

And wonder if this is the system
The palm which we eat from.