Do you want another Sylvia Plath?

“I’m too happy”

Plath

God the creator

The ineffable

Sylvia’s maker

Words uncomprehended

Even by suicide

He levelled her,

Smooth where he looks

And finds himself

In her mirror

Multiplied

Mirrored

Millennia

For who could not be a human, except man?

Answer:

The flourescent leeches

With dickhead flags

Ripping up roots

Planting self righteousness

On every corner

In a town

Which could

Be a toy model

So small

The bloody sun

Falls in grotesque gesticulations to the ground!

They pour gossip

Like concrete

Filling up a meaning

For themselves:

Smoothing out Sylvia

I walk round

Grooving and rocking

My sounds

Far calling forth

– everyone but one

Falling flat

Against a wall

Not a mirror

A well

– of absurdity and FARCE

Called patriarchy

Cal Kalve