6 March 2015



It’s the stony cold silence

The morning after

A beating

That fragile feeling

Softly trembling

The queerness in the gut

When the ebbing throb reveals

The broken incestual jaw

Of the sacrificial lamb

In a garden untended

And filled with nettles

It’s a mouthful of blood

And a handful of hair

Nothing to write home about

It’s not as if you care


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