Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Another Dumb Something to Be Proud of That I've Done

Sometimes poems are exorcisms:

You try to smoke the monster out

Before your tiny cottage bursts,

You pitchfork the gleeful demons,

Prodding them as they prance about

And poke you back. It fucking hurts.

With any luck, the monster shrinks,

The demons scatter and get gone.

Tidy up those lines, now. Move on.

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