I am not drunk you will have
to have me like this
and I’m sorry about that
with my teeth pumped full of silver
my toes like awkward twigs

now my hand is on your shoulder-blade
where I taste honey
and I find the scar you said you had
a misty oblong splash on the back
of one arm

then I seem to lose control of my lower face
the biology out of whack
it is moving about as if
yawning but not yawning
more chewing a wodge of sickly toffee

you are on me
touching me like this happens
to anyone with a wonky pulse
a gurgle in their gut
that sounds like a faulty washing-machine

have I made this up
am I zipping seamlessly through
each lucid scene without so much
as a blink
a sour cough

does it matter
you are playing me
as your favourite guitar
twanging the strings
to make me sort of sing

I have miles just miles
of words to spill out to say
but I don’t know how
to rotate them together
just yet