Man on Skyscraper

I slowly rise up

like a filling bath

like Kong at Belle-Vue,

to get by I have

called and howled, window

cleaner, peeping tom,

exhibitionist.

I can get to you,

I can look in on

you watching on that

Sharp television

set, as I climb this

syringe of glass to

simply get to the

point. They can question

me: What do I do,

am I the fly on

the wall, or am I

the writing on it?

I scaled across

these eyes and now I

fall away from them,

like Saul I can see

sight return once more.

When those stories went

by they were just one

more step up from the

last, from when I was

grounded into side-

walk gum and stuck to

your subtle heel

when you picked me and

picked me and picked me

until I came off.

Can you see how I

stick now? Like adverts

on billboards or the

photos we glued in

those albums. We threw

it all away. I

know I must not look

down to them again,

or up for answers.

I must resist this

wind strong enough to

blow these cob-webs up

around me. Still life

I remain unmoved.

 

Benjamin Jones