I wonder if Keats
Felt like crunching a stranger’s head
In a vice or cracking the hell out of
Some nonchalant ignorant slob.
I wonder if Keats,
Whilst puking blood,
Trying to publish a book,
Copying Shakespeare
By the light of the tomb,
Felt like falling
And piling the earth on
Or maybe chop his little hands
And stick them down his throat
In order to stop breathing.
Probably not,
But, I swear to you,
I am oblivious to truth.
