and this is not a performance poem

can you feeeeeeel it
the difference tonight
this gap between page and stage
see these lights - our collective reality
this contrived gesture - this movement
this e-nun-ci-a-tion

yeah punters of the poem
get a dose of tactile delivery
vampires of the word
here stanzas are felt rhythmically
deliberately

approximately one hundred and twenty seconds
or less - of word - one after-the-other
after-the-other - after-the-other

i am syllables - units of rhythm
assonance - alliteration consummated
i am literally a metaphor snake
strike like a simile of the sonic
not like lee majors bionic
or remote fibre-vitiman-tonic
nor a sister of the sonnet
a munted rhyme for the seated gods

but, also this is not a fucking aabbc bbaac ccaab
bbaad rhyming pattern - un-uh - but just a word
on another word - piled on another word

now some anecdotal advice
about how i once trod barefoot
in my own hot morning shit - brown and yellow
its steaming rancid relevance - between my cold toes
and how i always - wear boots now
before a bush shit - and dig a hole

stacked here - these spoken words - this lullaby
an uttered semiotic sign - a list of the signifier, signified
a significance - a literary spin for you

and my soul - merely the width of this entire room
and the motherfuckers innit
there is repetition repetition repetition - and breath…

and words like foreskin and clitoris
and this is my voice inside you now -
resonating through yr ribs and limbs my pulse
as real as yrs
not binary, ink
or digitalised
or analog
but written read
and vocalised

see my veins run red - and bloody as yrs
and you can - by now
see the sheen of my sweat
in the red light of my brow

and the bass of this microphone
into and outta these speakers
and into you - into you
in - to - you

and this is not a performance poem
amongst the laundry lists
and rock-pose grandeur

these are words - just words
just words - on words…