Screw

With every gesture I draw the threads of a screw and the screw
rotates, and I live in its hypnotic metal and I walk along its
thread as if I were a nut, and the screw rotates, and lost in its
cylinder there are sometimes spaces between its walls, where I
visit what I love and the screw rotates, and I return screwed in,
sharp within this unfinished sound and the screw rotates, and I
twist, forced between the walls and the crazy movement and
the screw rotates, and I am oppressed between propellers with
nauseous  eyes and the screw rotates and the screw advances,
and everything tastes like snails, like crazy tangles as an
untreatable Michael Jackson and the screw rotates, and
amongst this alcohol revolution with no cure, somewhere
between this inevitable tightening and loosening, as the screw
rotates, I become scared of myself: for I myself might be the
screwdriver.