Two Dozen Hearts

your heart is a crust of words.
yours is nailed in sentences.
your heart is a fist of sand.
and yours, a steel glove full of curds.

your heart is a throne of suds.
yours is champagne down the sink.
your heart’s a bottle of bitter beer.
and yours, a glass of frozen blood.

your heart is a cardboard cock.
yours is a shot of poppy-seed.
your heart is a rosebud welded shut.
and yours, a highly polished lock.

your heart is a demon playing nice.
yours is a saucer of milky plea.
your heart is a fig that has been bruised.
and yours, a smile at half-price.

your heart is a toad on an angel’s arm.
yours is a bird on an empty box.
your heart is a topaz hidden in turd.
and yours, a feather billowing balm.

your heart is a cherry that swallowed a worm.
yours has become your lover’s pram.
your heart is a mutating psalm.
and yours, a prayer book stuck with sperm.

Note: Relax. None of these are you. I wrote the above in response to the work of two dozen writers I heard regularly at a poetry venue in Melbourne a few years back.

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