The top shelf.

The top shelf.

I stand on tiptoes

Stretched

As taut as a guitar string

And snap

Into a catastrophe

There is no coming back

The fall

Unending

The bottom moves away

The darkness complete

I am dislocated

Bifurcated

Legs outstretched

The extent of my embarrassment

Complete.

Falling without grace

Is a capital offence

Unseen is a blessing

Unless there is no return

One day that will happen

If there is to be judgement

It will be on my terms,

Arms akimbo

Is a fine turn of phrase

But perhaps not in this context,

Until then

I will pretend to write

What might be poetry

Even though it is not as obscure

As it should be

For the literfarti

‘He writes prosaic prose

With too many conjoined

Sentences

To be a postmodernist.’

Who said that?

Me of course.