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.