that is not the question

There were times
when he thought he could write himself into his skin,
when he would trace a pen along the lines of his blue pumping veins
scratching out subtitles to a silent film and hoping
that what he meant to say wouldn’t get lost in the translation.

He has memories of jellyfish melting in plastic buckets,
in Palm Beach summers.

Of crab holes in grey sand lining highways.

Of ghost houses with lino floors.

He’s written this story before,
there are so many ways to write from the superego,
each as dull as the last.

He wants to write an id song,
to drink ink,
to eat crocodiles,
to jam lit firecrackers in behind his eyes,
and explode.

But we map our lives out with sat nav accuracy
and follow silky voice mistresses
whispering ‘take the next exit’
to arrive at someone else’s funeral.

In these lands,
the kings are all already dead.

Go, bid the soldiers shoot.

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