| Sprung The month of fools and suicides, of razor blades and sleeping pills of fleeting feet on window-sills that leave despair to tap inside and dive towards the daffodils. Moving I didn't miss you; you thought I would with every tissue. I didn't miss you; there was no issue - my aim being good. I didn't miss you; you thought I would. The Food Critic’s Husband Drag me downtown for some quasi-inedible ‘entrées as art’ on an oversized plate. Bray with the zeroes who’re halving their capers and sizing their sushi for content and weight. Meanwhile I’ll dream of a comely Jocasta who’s lusting for buttery pastries and sex; coupling, we’ll slither like eels in hot jelly and come with a hymn sung to Feedipus Rex! |
Patricia Sims
If you have any comments to make about her
poems, Patricia Sims
would be pleased to hear from you.
