What a performance she used to give!
My song-bird canary. Fled from its cage.
Too wild for me. No saint in her yellows,
reds, and greens, making such a fool of me.
Bejewelled, feathered, sluttish –
her dances frenzied, as hysterical as seasickness.
A light in the kitchen as we screamed.
Something was broken. It could be remedied.
Doping her with scopolamine.
I made her calm. I made her sleep.
Then I found that I was free, and from
there I ran. My girl, a fugitive, and me.
It took no time at all to catch me,
All disguised, imitations of the actress she
used to be. I let her wear her furs and jewellery.
I must argue – she wasn’t guilty.
It was only Cora and me. I fell into the cage
with relief and flew gladly when they hanged me.
Cora, my tightrope-dancer, on telegram wires,
all gleaming with gold, rubies, and citrine.

— Rowan Pollard is an English poet, isolated within his stagnant, nowhere hometown. He is constantly seeking exploration and dissection of the strange and grotesque.

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