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Posted by on Jun 26, 2007

Style and anchorless metaphors

Style
forth forward
stings like a rusty bayonet
in the deep waters of the Atlantic
and the cold presses close
like an imaginative vixen
in a Dicken’s novel.

Cry
my beloved,
the injustice is there, not an apparition,
not an ineptitude,
the pain in my father’s back,
bending close to his children
reciting dreams in prayers.

Wander,
the earth,
mosquito bites and bee’s wax
leaving an indentation,
leaving unanswered questions.
Wander the earth for me.

Scream,
quietly if need be,
let them, if them be they,
know your pain and triumph
in the robotic rude mechanical
solliloquoy.

Let them
be.

(Carry on Margaret)

1996.

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