Hypocaust

In the middle, I stand, pushing down my insides,

is to be whooshed over and

over;

whooshed by the waves, emanating up from the soles of one’s feet;

tidal waves, quick and sudden; humongous waves that cross over one’s bowels,  stomach

and heart, crushing them together into a

bouncing ball,

up and

churning it                                     out

out of my throat and out , straight into the face of the mortal who stands there,

on the sand,

holding onto the the edge of the sea and

rippling it,

rippling it and still trying – desperately trying –

to shake

out any rough bits –

any bits that dance, or that ripple, with a little bit of their own.

Why ? thinks the mortal. Why bother with the mess, the blood and the gory bits –

the hanging, the drawing and the disembowelling,?

Why?

When all that is needed is a word, a phone call, an email – a nod of the head,

or

quite simply

and quite cleanly

a lie?

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

 

Image by OpenIcons from Pixabay