affection

As spikey brittle as a sea urchin, I search
to see a safe enclave for my cloven foot,
rooting twenty fathoms deep in the rolling
swell of the ocean's ferocious belly button.
Fluttering with buttered feet on the shrinking brink
of collapsed thinking, my piston fist must strike
at the streaking faces, howling for domination
in the rumbustious anarchy of grim survival.
Driving the schitzoid team of inner horses
that I force onwards to the precipice edge, I pledge
my humourless dedication to the nasty task
of coming out from the treacle bin - on top.
And when you hear the snap of my command,
jump sprightly to avoid my reprimand.