Howard Firkin
a thousand points of contact
stillness breeds contempt
another’s points of view intruding on my skin

don’t get the needle
keep your cool stay ventilated mate

I get the point
I’m still I’m here
still here
my eyes are roaming
mind is dreaming its release from thought
is dreaming action walking sitting squatting
any movement that disrupts the autonomic stillness
dreaming disengagement
dreaming pointlessness

each breath a threat
impalement treads its arguments on dimpled skin
and sleep curls like a wave of blades

I’m left
I’m left a longing for the single gasp
the single stabbing punctured lung
the sodden heart
an end to insect stings
the music weeping from my skin
the song I long to sing
is running down the staves
coagulating into rust
and rusty flakes
and pooling into never sung

I’m right
I’m right to be still here

I’m still
still here here still still here
a thousand points of contact
stillness breeds