Love Poem


From all these words have I

pulled the pin, and lobbed,

over stubble-chinned fields of

spurned grasses, over the spike of

the church with its pious pews,

to strike the drums of your muted ears:


Cunt. Runt. Liar. Leech. Twat. Prat. Rat.

                                                               (Fatuous, now!)


To all these shells have I

lent my ear, and listened

to ill winds drifting back across

broken landscapes, ’til one morn,

the grasses bowed to a naked dawn –

and unearthed the real you.