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.
