Spoon Bending Poem by Barry Van Asten

The house is empty and seems so cold;
Rooms are dying, winding down, all through,
Where childhood thumbled long ago.

And in seclusion, I dummy death,
With fingers touching, still content
To draw stars and circles in the air.

Here, lion-crouching or war dancing;
Test-monkey sitting and laboratory squatting,
Waiting, expectantly, as if you would come in.

Round and round, without touching
Floors and walls or appliances:
These interiors have become your Himalaya's, you said.

And in my hunchbacked morality - I hypnotise...
Corners are head-shaped and I fit in.
Both as giant and insect, table-drowning,

Wanting to hear your voice, but then
Electric socket dreaming and spoon bending
Have taken you from me once again.