... sets the blood running up to the brain in its house of bone.
The whole body is on its edge.
It buzzes like a machine.
Nerves excite themselves in the pulsing flesh.
Sweat drips slow as a cold day’s ice.
Now the floodgates are opening.
Out pours the lifeblood.
Now nothing matters but Creation.
It screams for attention.
Its nags torments the early hours.
Keeps him on sleep’s wrong side.
The idée fixe will be certain.
But often he squeezes. And squeezes. For a nothing to come…
Now the diarrhoea of Creation splatters the walls.
Is this the birth of an unruly child?
Sometimes, other times, Creation is born only after a long last.
It is often such a slow secretion.