poetry (this poem is vegan)
  Jessica Rowland

poetry is massaging the brain of impossibility
implausible to the core, the dream of perfection ruined,
poetry prides itself on squandering beauty and picking
away at possibility by romancing the nature of reality
smearing the silence with rhythmic linguistic juxtapositions
seducing the silence of being and rain, poetry
wins at cards by being there at the right moment
to rescue the 6 of hearts from a snowbank
just in the nick of time, while the heroine
decides to breathe deeply in the back shed
inhaling the fumes of old dried and mouldy grass
with rotten metal from the discard bin

poetry is the patina of divorce on lost items swimming
in pools of forgotten things buried under garden hoses and
neglect while the winter rain drips through. it builds character,
she said, as the cold seeped in and the rust layered, the brine of existence
swilling back cheap wine with expensive cheese from the shop on the corner,
waiting to be exposed for its slavery and hypocrisy. the butcher, cruelty gruelling
in its normalcy, a cheap fallacy of eggs ready in the cooler making slavery seem normal, sausages and pies dream of ignorance behind glass cases, making faces at those solidly in denial with cash money derived from a variety of places

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