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.
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.