Seventeen Lashings

Is it

enough?

I ask myself.

Then I say,

What a foolish

question!

I have this whip,

see, and I have this fleshy

needlework, see.

Endless punishment,

always walking to the mirror

and ripping apart

the reflection.

Enough.

What a word,

louder than the ghost of a

Shakespearean player.

Always booming,

Enough! enough!

You haven't done enough!

Perfection,

peace,

and production are like

the moon, see.

The most infamous of tricksters.

You think they are

so close that with a 

whisk of your wrist,

you could grab them

and cradle them.

Oh, my cords will get weary but

calm and content

are like the clouds and

the stars and the glow.

Right there,

but never.

Reviews

[Tomás Ó C..]

Alittle dark, but noice....