These invisible lines

I attempt to lasso the world, twice daily or more. I draw ‘cut here’ dashes around my skull and invite all to delve, safe in the knowledge that anything remotely breakable has been removed for safekeeping. I rope in the sun and daub it with a soldier’s camouflage. I tear the clouds apart. I push back on the rusty arrows that emerge from my outgrown fingertips. I disconnect, I rip out the cord. I reconnect, I plug in and charge. I drift the oceans, entirely senseless, buoyed up by seasickness, salt and nothingness. I anchor myself to polystyrene rocks of make believe and gasp for your air. Hold, hold and thrice hold. I dream of locked chambers, and curse the keys that are hidden so far from here. I follow lines of all colours into the ground, tunnelling into you, then out again. I read words in black and white, on black and white too, while whispering to my pores to open up so that each one might soak into my scarred tissue. I tap nervous, stop-start rhythms across the warmth of plastic and wheezing technology, as I pray for rain and sudden electrocution. I wish for lines that go from here to there, there to somewhere, somewhere back to here. I wait for waking. Wake, wake and thrice wake. I whisper. I lasso the world, but it slips free of my pull and spins itself into a blur.