They will liquidate your strength of mind
for a humble feast of trifling fortune cookies.
Trodden down those heals you wear
though little worn, for apparent show of pride.
Cuckoo in your life of average – you
strike the quarters – whether in or out.
A public box –
A secluded stage –
dance my precious minion;
contradict them all so pitilessly wrong.
For where, tell me, is it embalmed to
say, that beauty only – shall
arouse the tigers ardour; for the taste
of human flesh… –
Poppy December 2013