Mish Moshing.


I Mish Moshing,

so out of breath from the swirl,

the fevered bounce

against another human bein’

that I would not get my words

out properly, as I say with engine stoked

memories forcing their hand,

I Mish Moshing,

the body the tool and the elbow

tucked in but still wary of

the natural enemy

to use force when

no one’s listening, the sly dig

as the ritual reaches

a crescendo of colour

and passing out sweat, flung

over and happily drenched,

the final bounce is the one that stays with you

and it knocks the stuffing

like a torn apart stripped Tigger,

as I say, breathless at the thought,

I Mish Moshing.


Ian D. Hall 2017