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This is the final draft of the following piece, just as it shall appear within The Book With No Name (I shalln’t have people nicking said appellation and then turning it into film, or a hat, or the like, so it’s under wraps for now) that esme intends to present to the world (hopefully within the next year or ten). A small handful of you will have seen an earlier draft version, but it shall be new to most. I’ve been told it is good form to show sneaky peeks of that which is to come, and so shall do just that every now and again. All the artwork shall be held back until I hold a copy of said book in my own small, somewhat ink-stained fist. All and any feedback would be welcomed and appreciated – if it doesn’t work for you tell me why; it is unlikely I shall release the hounds, (unlikely but not impossible), if it does, how so? If you hate it keep shtum, have a sticky bun, and go play in the sewer over there  – points down towards Westminster Palace.

So, ladies, gentlemen, sirs, misses (Ooh I say matron), and you in the corner with your face painted as a platypus, I give you . . .

Trust in Me

Come with me,
Hands bound,
With only myself there,
The sudden centre of your senses,
Focused intently, entirely,
On where I lead you.

You might be pushed off a cliff,
Descending face first,
Smashed as a bag of bone shards,
The air still holding
The remnants of your scream.

Or led into a field,
Pollen tickling nasal passages,
A red flag tucked neatly
Into the back of your trouser waistband,
Hanging down to knee level,
Flapping merrily in the wind.
Nothing to hear but the hammer of your heartbeat
And the drumming of the bull’s hooves
As they bear down on you.
As you become the china.

A level crossing;
I swiftly duck your head beneath the barrier,
Then stand stock still.
My hands, resting upon your shoulders,
Push down and have you sat on the rails,
Zen-like, legs crossed,
Awaiting the coming express,
Arriving in sixty seconds’ time.

The gritty scent of salty air.
Into Sea World we go,
Through a sneaky side gate.
One sharp shove of the elbow
And off you fly.
Orca has her luncheon provided.
Nothing left of you bar your wounded watch,
Ticking away obediently.

Or into the trees,
The whispering thicket.
Till I halt you in your tracks.
My hands gently holding your face,
Lips brushing your mouth softly,
Knots untied.
Your eyes unmasked
Take in a picnic prepared in the shady glade.
Food to be consumed greedily,
After greedily consuming each other.
Finger-licking nirvana.

Here’s the blindfold.

You’ll do it . . . if you trust in me.