Wednesday, 2 May 2012

Sonnet 008

The glare from behind his garrulous self
Left his face a patch of questioned dark.
He had a voice like a clean whiteboard.
The new lessons hurt us like allergies.
Each same day; we were to be convicted
Of our prejudices, spit out mother’s milk
And become the sign of our vanishing.

God of mucal births and arrhythmic deaths,
Keep me from such propriety, I pray.
Lead me to soil the polis’ pressed sheets
With fetid streaks of louche, guttural speech.
Give me a bruiser’s gait till I outspan
The tidy corner they gave me, to be-

Come the unplaceable word. Yes. Amen.

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