Love Poem

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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.

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