there is something about circling
a neat balance of the grip that pulls
and the calloused hands that push
around we go the natural cohesion
holding us in place
our eyes accustomed to the motion
if we thought about it hard enough
perhaps we would turn inside out
our pinkish organs dangling
under their own weight
our bones desperately grasping
to scoop them up
deep inside us our skin
shrivelling and curling in on itself
and as we continue our rapid spin
the gentle wind hurting our kidneys
When famous people pass
it makes you look at your own fragile form
the skin so easily opened
only an round blob of jelly between your brain
and the long protruding splinters
the masonry precarious above your head
the ground a maze of hungry cavities
and when we’re gone then what?
your worth to be determined
by some round bespectacled media editor
if you die young then congratulations
you qualify for 30 seconds longer!
headlining one final time at 6 o’clock
Just in case you aren’t stressed enough
”If you’re on your way to work, then do take a look at our app”
the round-faced news presenter announces
as pictures of the fire raining down across the Middle East
“you can keep yourself up to date on all the latest developments”
yeah…
open the app on your phone and get live updates
in between doom scrolling all the rest of the stuff they are feeding us
feel the knot in your stomach slowly constricting
as your bus carries you to a job that you fucking hate
keep scrolling as you enter the reception hall
the miserable receptionist with a TV screen behind her
pictures of destruction blaring out
keep scrolling as you enter the lift and press the faded number to rise up
to join the rest of them in their brown and grey pens
tapping their made up numbers into important tables
their innards slowly squeezing the colour from them
"Are you feeling stressed?”
the dentist asked me
peering over his surgical mask and removing the tiny mirror from my mouth
a line of saliva dangling perilously between my mouth and the instrument
“well, yes actually
the smell and sensation of your rubbery fingers in my mouth set me off”
“no, I mean more generally, your teeth are showing signs of bruxism”
he sighed out
his frown furrowing deeper
the light angled above
jabbing me straight in the eyes
the room and the face
of the dentist blurring
a small bead of sweat
gathering itself on my forehead
threatening to find the critical mass
to roll down
and throw itself from the trembling ridge
above my eyebrow
Michael Ashley is a British Poet who lives in a small village in the mountains in Spain. You can find is work in various printed and online journals and on his TikTok and Instagram channels: Michael Ashley Poetry.
Michael Ashley is a poet for our times.
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