clementine

in my sicksweet, sweat-soaked dreams, clementine recoils,

curling back and forth, undulating like
a mediterranean caterpillar: primal, entrancing;
precariously dangling

from the edge, above the abyss that hums;
she becomes a pulsating question mark,
locks herself; preserving a galaxy

of shrapnel of her soul that would otherwise have shot out
of her, at escape velocity, leaving her different,
like a shape-shifting pollock canvas

she awakens like a byzantine spell,
glides across the linoleum, like a trapeze artist
in a home video stuck in an endless loop, like life:
one where you chase after her until she turns her head,
pauses and smiles, reminding

you of tropical butterflies, pollen, thunder and the smell

of burnt beehives on a rainy afternoon, where
your goose-bumps coil into tiny spirals, like
clementine’s hair:

the colour of niche couture, french sexual revolution, punk angst
and lipstick scrolls of berlin written on old mirrors in basements
where lost humans fuck to escape the song of the abyss.

someday if you are near her, put your ear on her gut, and let go;
in seconds, you can listen to the primal gurgle:

clementine’s hum.