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Though it made me a poet


Though it made me a poet

 

This is a superior microwave to the last if everything has to be a competition

I guess it does!

In the Kafkaesque vortex

Where one is trying merely to ask a question

Instead one is sold something

I’m monastic or have acute anxiety

Anxiety is pretty cute

Like a decapitated bleeding brain

Covered in snails turned carnivore

By the wrack & ruin of a child’s innocence

The fist in the sister’s face

The knife in the wall

Did I imagine the latter, dream it or see it?

Who threw it?

Must have been the bowie

Still life goes on

So I went to school the next morning

& got my mouth taped up

For being a chatterbox

Such is the life of a privileged 5 year old

It made me a poet

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025. 


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