We are cut  

from the same cloth

Our poetry, our words 

are mapping pins

 

The inner rip

The visceral tear

The internal cut 

 

Fist rage embodied 

in every silent tiny prick 

of the mapping pin 

 

Your pins,

in their cadence, their sound,

Gravity loss in my pins

Damn it! You’re clever

you keep my feet still on the ground

 

Your pins map the circumference of my heart

They work their magic at night 

I awake the following day 

My body covered all over with

ten thousand tiny holes

made from your pins that prick 

right to the heart of 

Lacan’s theory of Love

Its motto being,  

‘I love you my darling 

but there is something more in me 

and something more in you 

This is always going to be a problem, 

there’s a labour within

What’s more than a neighbour to me than my stranger within’ 

 

then the lover replies, 

 

‘I love you but my darling, there is something more in me and something more in you, therefore I have to become destructive and mutilate you.’

 

So, you, beautiful man, 

master of pin

Multilate me

Prick my skin, drill down 

and dig out all the unwanted residue 

In its place, release pins that radiate love 

whilst satisfying the untameable death drive 

of my inner stranger, or if you will, 

the perverse jouissance of 

the inner rip, the visceral tear, the internal cut 

at the heart of every single one of us.