Lengthy vests on wrathful women
one after another, chairs screech out
screech in
The vests creep up, the burdens lowered
One palsied hand seeks itself, the other
holds painfully thin paper and then nothing else happens
for twenty three minutes
I want to fight them i want to tear the flesh from my hands with my nails and blind them with my blood
Twenty three minutes later they all stand up
one hand empty, the other holding itself
wide wood scrapes wider wood
aching old bodies moving onwards
they don't seem disappointed, they should be disappointed
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ReplyDeletei don't know how to say so it dosn't sound like i'm kidding, i have been liking the mild booger-content of your recent poems (well not this one, i mean i like this one too).
ReplyDeleteoh, why does it have to SAY that i deleted the first one?
ReplyDelete