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.

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