The thought-provoking periodical for thinking idiots
Race
Is not a race.
We break the tape
Abreast, our essence
In one place, at best
No-one oppressed,
Nobody last.
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CrAsS
A simple sentiment, expressed with an abundance of internal rhythm and rhyme that reflects the nature of a race, changing places and keeping the rhythm of running until the suggestion of equality at the finish line, abreast.
Is he having an affair? Is she?
What seems a simple, one-dimensional text is full of hints at the underlying truth. The final lines put us in the picture and create a nostalgic picture of halcyon times. The seemingly unconnected adjective, 'unsung', speaks volumes about the memory of that garment, whether its sexuality was simply overlooked or its impact not even noticed...
Love Me
You do not love me.
The slight sneer in your sideways glance
When we were shopping and you looked
Across the floor from where you think I cannot see,
Or in that window dressed with prettier girls,
Some nude and alluring, incompletely perfect.
You do not love me.
Your tired eyes tired of looking into mine
And seeing lines you did not commit to or endorse.
Redness from my crying over split silk
And not going to her house because
She’ll be there, incensed and full of self-contempt.
You do not love me.
In the bathroom, through the steam,
Fury, shame and loathing clear what dulls
My echo in the mist; to be out
And running through that field again
In those unsung, scarlet pants.
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