It tastes sweet,
A syrupy figure of strawberry juice
Spiralling like a typhoon in the glass,
Tastes sweet as I kiss the rim
Into the corners of my mouth like
Two blunt knives.
I used to play a little with
The pills before hiding them away in me
One by one but
I crack the packets open this time
Like Christmas crackers
And take a suprise bomb; a bad joke.
The back of my mouth and the top of my throat
Wave on the first green coated hero
And the second doesn't stick either
But the next go in
As commandos whose cover is blown;
Like the poisonous murderers they are.
I take a moment to clear
The field of gas,
My lips have a shake at
The idea of letting something out,
But I know it'll make the sticky trench clearer.
The fruty scent escapes the glass
And sings arie in my nose.
It seems I'm wrong.
The next two go down like a tub of salt in a childs throat
And then my agents are thrown out with
All the acidic debris they created.
The mess prods my eyes;
Tells me I wasn't quite ready,
And overpowers the aroma sickening my nostrils.
Next time it says.
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Comments about this poem (Strawberry Typhoon by Sandy Player )
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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