This poem is not for a sensitive audience.
Spat like phlegm
bawling to be put back
but she was already off
to make a cuppa and lie down
entrails trailing behind her, a gleaming, gunny sack
he shrieked, pissed and shat his loin cloth
and all she did was shower him with kisses and
little whimpering coos
how he hated her
he’d tried to kill her already and himself
when his head had formed he’d bashed it against her womb
stabbed his fingers in his screwed shut eyes
he sat on his legs and stopped the blood,
bending them into obscene deformity
lashed and bit at the bitch’s straitjacket
tearing at that force-feeding tube between them
but she won
she always fucken won.
Edmund Caterpillar is a HK based poet whose works have appeared on both sides of the Atlantic including in London Grip, Into the Void, and RA Review.