You say I enter you
    like magician
    who scratches the bottom
    of an old top hat
    in search of a rabbit,
    or like vet arousing a cow
    to ease artificial insemination,
    or like beggar
    scanning the depths
    of a public bin.

    I say:
    rest your ankles on my shoulders,
    press your hands against the floor,
    keep your buttocks up,
    it will hurt less.

    You say:
    I can't breathe ,
    blood is rushing to my head,
    your nails are piercing my left ankle.

    If you donít shut upÖ
    And If You Donít Shut Up gets
    inscribed in your blood stream
    with letters made of
    faeces, sweat and Crisco.

    You see the things you make me writeÖ

    Donít you realise, I say,
    that the scratches on your ankles
    are the imprint of your pulse,
    a cardiogram, the completion of a track
    from your heart to your intestines,
    from your rectum to my fist,
    from my elbow to my torso,
    from my heart to my left hand,
    and from my nails to your skin?

    Donít you realise it hurts, you say.

    I push. You shout.

    You say I exit you
    like teenager
    whoís forcefully pulling
    the lever on a pinball machine
    to beat his companions
    or like warrior
    withdrawing a sabre
    from a rusty sheath
    or like torrents
    of acidic sharp
    diarrhoea.


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