Intruder Alert

A conference theatre, unfilled, the field;
green folding chairs, strewn, the crop.

Some poor woman, older, robust, sexless to me,
sits, cross angled.

Her seat folds, becomes a vice;
her fingers caught, trapped, raped, crushed.

Her shouts scorch, stark pain,
boiling crescendo. People rush. Not me.

I am shock still,
stunned by lust, by shame.

I can't forgive me this.
I can't.

image: music

music

arts & ego
dish dosh
© & licence

image: set Hear

flock state
Peered
The Mere Of Ice
Northumberland
Intruder Alert
To Let
The 'A' Rush
Server Room
A Mary Car…
Garden
Flock State

Original Poem




this archive is hosted by arts & ego
© 1978-2024 dylan harris