Reconnaissance

Blonde hair stacked like the hay and just as flammable in which I used to roll and sneeze when my body was smooth and unblighted by corporeal want, before my navel dropped between my legs not many years later. For the sake of thematic consistency, let’s say the eyes were blue like the sky whose cloud voyages I used to mutate whilst reclining on the hay and just as malleable on which I used to roll. Emotionally I mean.

Four cold fingers on the back of my neck, manipulate my field of vision forever in the direction of:

‘Please wrestle my physical autonomy from me so I can be the plateaux on which things grow instead of the axis around which my anxieties and aspirations orbit.’

The opposable thumb allows my captor to squeeze, my hairless neck a malleable dough.

How old were you when you first got hard in public?

One finger smothers the past.
Another strangles the future.
The next is the blue touch paper of fusion.
The fourth burns the blueprint into my erotic heart.

I was seven and the teacher warned that he might paralyse my neck.

The thumb dug like the pitchfork my mother’s father used to ventilate the hay in which I used to roll leaving a white spectral hand of shadows inside which I dwell like I would a creamy blissful oubliette if at times I could find one.

She spoke of paralysis in negative terms. I think he was called Wayne, like the moon the arrival of which used to signal that I’d mutated clouds long enough and it was probably cold and time to eat sometimes does only spelt differently.