Undermine The Title (11th January 2006)
Poem By Sarah Capella Smith
Shithole, loose scab, shameless abattoir.
A black proverb,
“The simplicity is yours.”
I was a rock caught in the middle of a stream.
Like plaster in a mould,
Like a dried out sponge, like a pen ran out of ink.
Lost. Mine was the sound of a thousand
Silent pulsing defeats,
An onyx heart beating beneath pink brick roses.
I waited, weighed down with domination.
Pluck, pluck, pluck!
Only one, maybe two, took the risk.
Reports were the worst, nasty analysation,
And nobody was let off the hook.
No chance pal. No chance pal.