I wrote it 
the feather 
plucked.
Pop
out it came
once,

all at once 
for in the space of a minute 
maybe two 
I wrote it 
Fucked it 
Buried it.

It, separate somehow 
from its mother 
who gave it
birthed 
and from whom
it left 

The word  
was 
flume.
You know, flume,
like the water park 
flume.

I was staring  
there was water 
falling off rock
into more water 
from a thought 
not memory.

Now I’m nervous.
Flume
my flume
wriggles 
it needs 
out.

I don’t like it 
now
help 
it here  
it  
hurts.
 
- 
sharp  
inside
me
can’t 
inhale.

No more
this will only end 
as I know it begins.
I spit bars 
I must 
It must.