By | 1 May 2019

Unquick, undead, with oyster eyes, he surfs
a toppled tombstone then lurches and trundles

through the poplars, unshapes himself like
an octopus to shimmy through the iron grille

of the perimeter then negotiates a rope-bridge
between definitions: of being and non-being,

immanence and evanescence, the engendered
and the cobbled-together, a zonked mis-stepping

bi-pedal, his flipped orbs miming introspection,
his ragged dentition snapping at shadows.

If he hadn’t been wiped clean of awareness
like a knife, to make him a mere instrument

of the dark forces, to prowl the mean streets of
eschatology, he would know he was doomed

and could stride from his shelter into an unpeopled
waste, like Captain Oates taking one for the team.

But a poignant scenario belongs in another studio.
In this one he’s a pop-up transplant clinic

harvesting useful parts for the highest bidders
with scraps for himself to keep him ticking over.

His to protect and serve those near-dead masters
who consume the living.

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