• A stroke of air from the sweet scent saddled to your shadow
    shunts my thoughts into a comatose lapse
    (and leaves me gauping as if I were missing a chromosome).
    With a vacant atmosphere rattling around in my grotto-like skull
    and an artless canvas hanging behind my trembling eye-lids,
    the intricate stitch-work becomes more entrancing
    the longer I close my eyes; its narcotism sewing my toes to
    a welded gravel floor and embroidering the stalactites with my fingertips.

    Like a painter drawing a blank,
    I’ll long for a ray of light to hit the burlap

    to shatter into a spectrum of colours and shades
    against the petrous wall, before fusing
    to create silhouette puppets with
    kaleidoscopic scenes that soak into every nook.
    Staying fixated on the orbs, dancing in and out
    of the portrait shadows like some primitive laser show,
    I wait for the beam to make its way from the Technicolor
    [melo]drama to the stitches and loosen my digits
    and give my limbs room to creak.