by Chris Buchanan
he beats flaps of film,
no more than shed flakes of skin to Him,
He who wonders at his easy flight
and brushes breadcrumbs from fat lips.
He backs away,
as if that tiny blunted point of abdomen
this other, with eyes larger than his being,
eyes in subtle, soft, insidious colours.
The bastard takes mysteries for granted, guttering
loud, slow nonsense over sputtering.
Helpless scrabbling on invisible surface,
reflective, while he watches perfect.
and watches the fuck,
legs moving like tools to prime,
lifts to lift him away
if He tries to crush his fragile shell.
If He tries then weak venom strikes, spikes,
spills his mind and fills his pike.
he moves in faster planes, HE flies!
He cannot fly! HE can fly, HE will FLY!
A move is made and he backs back a bit
to the strange safety of confounding surface, flits
unsweetened by jam and sweat and mammal.
he escapes, transgressing transfixing panel.
Tomorrow it will play out again.
He dares to take his air
and offer His sandwich.
Tomorrow HE’LL win!
He’s more scared of him than he is of HIM.