Self Portrait with Nerves

Colour of skin, nearly blue

Rivering through cities, nerves are hot lava

Long, narrow, now shaven, face

Nerves the roots of the tree


Inventing thirst

How does one get used to this


State of affairs

Nerves the cracked mirror

I walk as though I were catching myself


From falling

Nerves the rhizomes of stars

I stand as though bones held sway


Not sinew, muscle or nerves

The lines that bind you to the sentence are



I grow a writing callus

And have stopped making judgements

God’s language of reversal


In which poison is food and juice venom


Tunes the Nerve Language

And I am telling you all this


Such that you imagine


Something else