you stop looking at the clock
on the wall above the bar
you stop checking your wristwatch
you don’t even mind the man
sitting next to you being all touchy
you don’t concern yourself
with the root-like-fingers
entering the cervices
it doesn’t bother you
that he smells
of masturbation
and that he could be called de Rais
and he could have killed twenty-five children
maybe more
and could be wearing a shirt of human flesh.
It is about this time
you suddenly realize
that you are a mathematical genius
and that you no longer need your thumbs and fingers to count
Barry Whitehouse
aiurea press 