By Oscar O’Neill-Pugh

Who took your measurements?

The diameter of the jugular

nestled happily in your throat.

Who was it you watched fall

as you straddled Lucifer

and rode the goat?

Why was it you kept empty eyes?

Fled away with a gleeful grin

as you lifted up your skirt.

Why would you keep twisting his knife,

another turn of the screw,

when you knew how much it hurt?


A pack of hollow people,

in a, pact, like sardines

in a little tin.

Retained from meaning,

alive on the outside,

but dead within.


A loving couple live lovingly.

They have a loving baby together,

borne, straight into a wall.

The dashed its brains out

upon the cold bricks

and never had lived lovingly at all.


Image by Andy Chilton



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