Human Cannonball

I slip into the iron mouth that rolls
my skin on its abrasive tongue.

I hear bands of chain-belt swing
and tease the stone corridor.

Heavy boots grind the sand spittle
in the kitchen.

It is time for prayers.

A poker is pulled from the belly of the stove.
It sears the fuse, curling the hemp
into screaming action.

It is time for prayers.

My feet are stinking sausages in leather casks
awaiting compression by God's breath.

It is time for prayers.

The powder snaps and SMACK   I    am
a   baseball     beaten
into     black       void.
I    am    a    doll       of
meat    flailing    for
control,        aswim
in    a     lake     of     confusion.   I
am   a    spaceman     cut   loose
from    the      cord     of     gravity.
I       am      a      cluster
of           hurled
eggs.

The scented smoke of my spirit
dances blue around me like dolphins.

My bulk pushes into softness, elastic
hugs of warm cake, time
rippled into threads, of
syrup love, the
whine of ecstasy, there
is only this feeling,
there is only black
white fizz, a
transfiguration into flesh
from a cloud.

My explosion is reversed, I am
moulded into a silver ball of man.

Amen.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.