I was told my poetry wasent literal enough
You got me there
In point of fact
It's just the wheezey stuff
One huffs and then puffs
But don't blow no house down
The ravening wolf
Who soft approaches
Wears his frown upside down.

A diffident claim of the litre
Of liquid that singes my face. Or
An interjection, on the stiletto-edge of oppression.

The load of your hands flush against
My iliac crests, like reins,
Leads us to no transaction.

There’s a softer spot than the one you spoil through
Licking clean a lifetime's wounds
That hurt with or without you.