There is somewhere a body of a boy made of clay.

His ma, she made him.
And is that not every
One. Of us.

Sorry wait. Some

Where the metaphor of a mother’s hands holding breath – shaping consciously the unconscious. Is true.

As true as the first muddied haaaaaaa

through the darkness of earth,

her hands are turning memory into a weighted pillow- a body. Any body knows wet hands slip into their own pleasure



The man decides he must own something of what she makes. But he doesn’t know in every haaaa I am getting closer to the hands that made me    I am trying to hold my head ma


The man he found me wet muddled, and being,

And couldn’t stand that I never came out of a violent darkness that I never tore through you enough to be blamed for your hurt ma he

Wants to hurt me for the hurt he put you in – off

Look I’m sitting here

Sorry ma my crown is at your feet.

It is touching your toes

Are shrieking your hands are cracking your forehead is being licked by the sincere hope that maybe

he has not hurt you

this bad that maybe

he would not hurt you again

maybe he will not lie when he promises the hurt is you imagining he hurt you

he has never hurt you

he thought you wanted to believe he never hurt you

so why can’t you

you do

           how can you?

He hurt you before and after he broke you in two

In that I mean ma

He broke into


He broke and the splinters got lodged somewhere in my body when you shaped me I was born with the scars of that fear I am scared my sandcastle body may burn for you and unknowingly become him

If I become him  I will not hurt you but I might hurt a someone else  I might one day cut into something worthwhile and I might realise they are you and I am him and then what will I be but the man who cut me in two

He tries finding another head and it has a nose that can smell how much has changed. After. now

it cannot be before after

my ears are bigger than my mouth so pray

because there is nothing I have not heard even without utterances, I can hear them even without-

within the haaaaaaaa

sorry? To this new body? How can that be what shapes me – just because he made me an apology to you for you

you accept me but why ma now how do I stop becoming one –

there is no reclamation when I never know what to claim in the first place – I do not know the name of the grains of dirt you helped call ours so I will call home where your small feet are aching to kick – are waiting to stop

at tell me where I will try and build something for you

sorry it is not yet ready

I am still trying to get used to this elephant of a head on this mortal molar of a body

it is all grinding in itself trying to go back to

to go back- no – sorry

that would mean I am -

becoming the ‘what I never want someone else to go through’ how do I look elsewhere

how do I look past my ears

help me fly ma

where do I look up from my nose

it’s never bled – I lie
it has…

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