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03 May 2010 @ 10:05 pm
If This is Your Worst Lament  
The longer one endures joy,
feels glorious each day,
and looks forward to the next
The greater the risk
Oh, it can hurt
More than you think you've ever known
Nor can remember
And the mose obvious answer
is wrath.

Slash at the page,
blue ribbons running lucid
from your veins to the tip
of your brand new pen that was
$1.25 from the post-office.

And then, everything aches and throbs
Like the blood pulsating through you
has steeled itself
And is now imploding in your chest
And it bites, clamps, maims
but at the same time,
it stops you from falling apart
Some cruel adherent.

And you haven't written so hard, so long
In forever.
The poet asks why?
Can't I write when I'm happy?
This is my curse.
An affectation of the final dregs of teenage-angst,
These tea-leaves say:
Be joyous, and be fruitless
Fertilise my barren muse-tree with a broken heart
(oh there is a combination of words that makes me ill:
my throat dry and my stomach double-wet with churning acid.
I apologise, dear reader.)

So here, we dust out the cobwebs.
Pull a featherduster from the laundry cupboard
And wreak mad, screaming havoc with these stucked gears
and let some words tumble out, for god's sake
All those ones too good to keep in:
postulate, demarcate,
crimson, etymology.
coronary, nordic,
philanthropy.
Throw open a window, and air your cerebral cortex,
because it's getting pretty damn stuffy in here.