Sitting to Write of Love


shit,     I write,     is all we are.     society
a cesspool and each a turd swimming in
miasmas of piss and tears   .   .   .   very good,
says the ghost over my shoulder.     this too
is a poem of love.          love?     I spit.     how
a poem of love?          such bitterness,     says she,
could grow from no other seed.          love,     I write
is a bitch ready to bite her owner
for having touched the runt pup mid-suckle.
yes,     says my ghost,     now you confess to all
absence of knowledge, knowing nothing of love
save perhaps what some poetic boy wrote
five hundred years ago in a book of sonnets,
or perhaps bitter is all you know of love?

David M Pitchford
10 Nov 2011

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