Freaks dir. Tod Browning

this isn’t about the cure

Scratch with both hands, like
a drum roll. The stinging chorus,
blood seeps out
of my Dennis Potter skin. I lift
her CD from the open tray.
Its’ slicing satisfies where its’
songs didn’t. They fell like lead when
they ought’ve floated,
as childrens' sentences do.

Her hair, black/grey like an
early winter’s evening.
What does she, care?
“With yr eyes
like that, you look
like Robert Smith circa 1982”,
but this isn’t about the
cure.