poetry critical

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Imaginary Killer

You’ll take her,
just like father took your mother.
Pour her through a strainer and then cover.
Shake her till her pain begins to set,
just like all the others that you met,
in bars, at bistro’s
weddings and the rest.
Their screaming lips
now white against the glass,
make you wonder how it came to pass,
that jars stacked gleaming on the kitchen shelf,
speak to you of no one but yourself.

16 Oct 12

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