No thanks.
I don’t want to talk about ‘it’.
‘It’? F*cking ‘it’?
That
tiny,
snivelling
insignificant
mono
syllabic simile
for something that’s bigger
than a f*cking aircraft hanger?
Your puerile insensitivity
Let me leave you with that thought.
Hanging in the air,
For you to store in your
F*cking aircraft hanger
it is your meaning perhaps it is lost to it...is it clear..it is dear..what a wonderful stanza of planes and where it hides them...it thinks you haves more of it in you...iip...do it again..it is great..thank you..iip
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Oooh! I can imangine the catharsis, Sue, that the climax of your poem brought in, 'Your puerile insensitivity'! Well done!