the performance

i'm a wind- up toy,

doing things 

not because they're worth doing,

but because i'm told to.

there is nothing but the tick- tock droning

of motions being spoon- fed into my wake.

'you do it because you have to'

'to remain human'

'to keep your sanity'

but am i not insane?

am i not a ballerina dancer 

dressed in painted off-colours,

my wooden heart rotting,

spinning again and again

to Swan lake

being tipped off balance, 

off key

by time and weariness and age and a little child's fingers?

spin my clockwork motor,

turn it round,

watch it strain at your fingertips,

then release.

let me entertain you.

let me do what i've practised

for years,

let me do

the only thing 

that you think i can do,

let me appease you in the monotonous, sedative pattern of dance

that you never seem to tire seeing.

i don't enjoy it

the way you do.

so don't ask for it

anymore.

but here 

is the last one.

i will perform for you.