Len Gurts… You… Nice One!

I am full of rage. I want to be soft. I smashed up a chair (it took too long

to understand softness was a thing—a possibility—I want to bite

the goose’s head off) I cry

and dribble. I am thankful that I think nothing

when I am crying—when no one is laughing at me in my head

for crying—when I am on the floor

heaving (next to the chair—and I hate that I held back—I hate that I have learnt

some control—I resent this in between

to meet soft—I want to cut open the goose) my mouth is metallic—

the right side of my face waves in and out of numbness with the neck, chest,

arm leg going tight—numb—I am so good

at doing this—I could rage and cry for my life. I am getting

so soft and good with rage (you have to be good

with your rage) I’ll be swimming in my dribble soon while I

watch the goose (sorry goose—I was angry

and making good with it—oh my oh my!)

*

OK. This is softness. The sky. Look! Blue! Colour.

The tears. Salt. Taste. Oh my—that made me shake. Rage again. Oh well. I smashed up a chair. Oh well.

Touch! My skin! My wet face! My skin

is here?

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