White Hot Cross


I won't throw some half baked thoughts down.
I'm white hot cross with poetry,
The acute deserter.

My friend,
My ally
My rich comforter through the bleak betweeness, is no more.

I could force a twee rhyming couplet
Or invent a dire drivelling set
or tweak a new combination called a sappy thruplet, or not.

So, I -
hate you, I do.
Everything I write is not , right.

For your exacting annoying standards
I would bleed out to wet a pure silk scarf ,
Oh, but the words will the just die
A pitiful death, no write up in the notices.

They have become a garden worm, boiled dry on a sun scorched path, ignored by the birds.
No more than evidence of a creator, who believed
Their own absurd pity might work.

I think, actually ,in red woollen coats on snow felt fields, of feels,
Of tongues whispering incantations in secret words
To lull lovers to devilry and enjoy addictive scorching sin.

Really, I'm a middle aged mother
Wife,
A clerk,
Oh the normality.

Then,

Of wooden whiskey barrels and old men's tobacco drenched whiskers -
Thighs, for some reason and bumblebees
And nonesenses that don't connect.

So bury me in a cold hole, my poetry bone is broken and protruding
Everyone can see
No light please,
And definitely, surely, no words, they are but a blunt curse.

In some hope,
That in absence of stimuli
In the centre of all this icky ego
A birthing might prevail

I'm just saying, I swear down I just saw a donkey, and an ox and a shepherd go by..









Poetry by Frances The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 2560 times
Written on 2025-09-21 at 21:50

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