David W. Pritchard
Of Violence
She has your brain? Have her now!
Walls are made of cinnamon and children
scoff at the thought, a tempest in a can
of soda, how ludicrous! and yet there is something,
danger, about the creek, the cups of coffee are bad
for your teeth as it starts to rain. Explosions,
definitive and putative as failure, roll across the
map as instructed by the rake. Let this
expiate! No! the dramatic veil is too far gone
I am tired of strolling, let the violins out of the taverns.
