Under the Cliff

A part of an online group show ‘I Object’ 2021 at the Freud  Museum London.

In the endless falling I
wake up again. With a sharp ache,
my hands wrapped around my neck, shoulders
grotesquely twisted and illogical
knees up high, bent from the arm
to the back of the feet, to each one toe,
every joint resists and kinks.
What a terrible sleep. What abuse
to suffer all night, now it is like the mess of a duel.

Or in the dream, they tried
acting apart from me, by their own will.
To keep slavery from happening again, my hands
drove by the tongue, they might
several attempts to strangle me in the dark.
While I'm not awake, the world has not formed.
Then everything didn't have to be organized, as it is now.
At that time they were even closer, even the bones were fused together.

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