by S.H. Gall
The damaged lining
of this awkward appellation
is just bewitching,
begging of the light
test prod — OW! and then
stern mastery:
Introducing
the cruelly hooked thumb
with ragged nail,
plunging up, ripping into
and down into the light
of a fuzzy lip,
tears coursing
at the sight of
my nose's tiny abortion.
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This is why I don't write poetry. At least it's short!
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I don't think it is bad, per se. I think it is efficient, tidy, cute. But my standard for poetry is WOW. I need to have the WOW for line after line... stuff like this I could read a few of, but it's no Ashbery or Merrill or Darryl Price.