Monday, 1 May 2017

day 17

my upper lip curls
as an idea unfurls
i can feel myself snarling

i cant - i wont - stand
for this
i'd rather chop off my own hand
than this
i'd cut off your head
or anything,
but this

i am a brute
had I a gun
i'd shoot

my eyes are searing
as if touching the metal of a kettle
i begin to settle, soul in fine fettle
once more

the heat i was fearing
- not as before -
is now migrant, effulgent
delicate, undulant

im peering into my depths
slowly getting out of breath
some thought-quarrelings are due
so who's darling are you?

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