The Heroine of Harrow

To the heroine of harrow: I offered hard labour, ploughing my soul in an inch, Now, days go by in my Trelleborg without feeling a pinch, Spotlights, random hot rods, my own stigma as the mark of Cain Released to feel a high degree of vulgarity, sole, Whenever I want, whenever I can. Satyriasis immortalised with impunity wrapped up in an isotope of bruised soul, How does it feel to carry around a perforated heart? What would you give to know? Do not stress! How does an emotional climax end in a cosmic rapture? It feels – empty. And it ends by a single word, or less. I bolted like a wolf chasing a deer, gone as a seismic capture. A throb in my temple, a tender temptation of tasteless unbounded love, Onliest, lone, creating brooding despair, sweep off feet kind of joy Sudden indisposition towards retribution and damnation Have given me the chariots of lightning summits, oh boy! Make me write it off with gratuity, simple and quick amputation. Whereon I stand, I am insulting my fortune while solemnly swear, That I will entertain my fatality with eminence, I remain straight as an intention in the head of a monk, Reluctant to give any evidence, Far from being cool, I’m erasing this junque.