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Fingers puncture
the darkness
at the sides of the top
bunk. After long
enough, hands,

wrists, arms
follow, all intent
on holding

me down,
restraining me.
Archetype of our age.
In the process,

find my power exhausted,
that the fight in me has fled, 
my voice is gone… 

Bound and gagged. Used.

Uncalled-for elevation
in the nether-regions
upon reflection:

what the fuck is wrong with me?
What the fuck did you do to me?
Only sadomasochism spells relief.

This is far from normal.

You twisted me out of place
in time and space,

me to dimensions
beyond belief.


One response to “Catapult. 

  1. I love the brazen language of your poetry. Your work is stark and in-your-face. I am a now a huge fan. You should check out our collective,

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