25 August 2017

a looming paternal voice holds grudgingly on
my earlobe, raking through my fallen fringe
for any inch of spoken word dissent, it is a
sign of mingling fury and falsehood. i do not
like fracturing continuity, the runny silence
between common feet. grey fiddling in the
absence of communication. the inaccuracy
of love, usually parental, paternal, for he
greets his disagreements with echoes,
brassy and heated.

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