The poetry that moves me
inconveniences the banal coupling
of reason and aesthetic,
into the middle it adamantly arrives
premature of its birth.

Should it be given form,
its approximate might be some entity
as shocking as a nylon clad albino
seated on flowered chintz
sipping blood from dainty china.

Its voice a terrible grace,
and its silence
equal only to the quiet
of an inert bludgeon.

01/07/2013

Posted on 01/07/2013
Copyright © 2024 Johanna May