I am made of hands at the end of my arms
I am armed shoulder-like, shoulder-width
shoulder-to-shoulder
a head
tethered unconvincingly
wobble wobbles
trying to vertical-line to a middle
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o
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production of a head-ache
sea-sick between twos
like nostrils, nipples, knees
down to a couple of feet apart
marching on orders
through the articulations
going
hip-hip poor-pot-am-us
all the way round
back and forth
with itself to itself
roundabout a standing
everything I take with me
plus the minus of forgetting
around abouts
one rounded up
as bellybuttoned as allusions to a cut-off point
the whole body
or starting point of an already-fattened
joined up wheels
to be able to go again
hip-high pot his is
ran-sacked by urgencies unfinished
as cyclical as circular
pushed on by a pulling off
dismemberment cauterised and redoubled through good and bad organisation
(which from which not always obvious)
knee-deep in it
to the finger tipping-point
of a touch that shocks
and a pokey extension in turn sensitive to the touch
shot-maker, shock-repeater
current conductor of an electrical leaking
electricity of life
I am, body
nascent within a distance
to shock and be shocked
shoot after shot
but back and forth
first times after a first time never quite yet been
in readiness to know
what all the feelings mean
the break-up
the make-up
the disembodiment of organisation
before re-swallowed by the sweaty pocket-warmth of the ultimate sensitivity
where the half i am is properly absorbed
and whence I was originally spat out and buttoned
come full circle
without being able to fill anything up
repeating
at the sake of the diminishment of the body
but not the head-ache feeling
which just metastasises
walking the body through the irreversibility of its forwardness
always back turned to a world of surprises
the relationship of contact
The Writers' Circus 