I recover well from
fatal wounds:
crushed by failure
marooned by fear
quartered by anxiety
burned by lust
decapitated by tranquillity.
Circumcised by derision.
It is a long way
to abandonment—
turn right at Tipperary
tumble left at the
melting gazebo
stroke the neck of
a rutting zebu.
Fuck me dead!
Walking into this
dreamworld is more
work than the
pleasure principle allows.
More heavy than a hundred cows.
Just as bent as a Roman nose.
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
I enjoyed the wordplay at the start of the poem and the humour that laces the poem. Very entertaining and I can imagine that this poem would relate really well to a performance.
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