They say…

They say…

that ‘poetry’ cannot kill;

but, I believe,

that, though not (usually) being fatal,

it ‘can’ make you very, very ill.

Sick to the stomach,

nauseous, with the fear of vomiting,

and with a hint of acidic sourness

that pervades the nostrils,

coats the throat,

and, omitting nothing,

causes an imbalance

to the binary system.

Not that I write ‘that’ sort of poem;

no, there is no hint of cyanide in my words;

no deadly nightshade laced metaphor

that looks like a jelly sweet,

in my metrical feet.

My poetry is pure

and holy,

and wholly lacking

in anything likely

to raise the pressure

of the blood by a tad –

but, sometimes, I wish,

my poetry ‘was’

that bad.