Angst Verse Burned

spare us your fucking flesh wounds,
they'll not be remembered;
jealousy, unfairness, lost love,
all preciously rendered.

the faux-melancholic couture
is a pale imitation;
the impotent sex-as-death metaphor
no revelation.

such suffering is poignant, piquant,
poetic of course;
but we all have our own shit,
we don't need a bus load of yours.

Daren Randell

The Frustrated Poet