Monday, August 24, 2015

Hollow Puppet-Flailing

Consider all the anger that I bear;
Consider all the blisters in my gut
That seep when every self-encysted rut
That trips me, makes me stumble with my flair
For hollow puppet-flailing through the air,
For stumbling like a cretin with a cut
That gouged out all its brains, and like a mutt
Kicked, until the crippled cur must err

No more. Where is the truth in my offence,
In my back-directed lacerating rage,
In the face that glowers just above the sink?
Where is a counsel for my own defence?
And as I spurn the spirit of this age,
Must I also bleed my failures out in ink?

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