Yes please

The virtuoso of the cotton strung piano
served his cliches from a second hand tongue.

He lusted for
gut, flesh and gristle.

High on base testosterone
he would rather hurt a man
than kiss him.

The polished brush steel bar
cast back low self regard
in this place where lying fate
evolves all people ugly
to perpetuate its pornograhic
cruelties.

He wanted to howl at the moon
but cocooned inside the failure
and lies his voice had no authority

poem by Ewan Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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