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You’re a goblin, my precious. A knock-kneed, talentless wannabe, etcetera. And, you may be wondering what

has caused this vicious tyrade. I point to your mouth that has ki(ll)ed men aplenty; down/up, etcetera.

Plath hast possessed my third eye; the glass elevator to backstage at the NME awards, born in 1953 (when

Sylvia was at Mademoiselle, publishing poems/stories, etcetera). Your little black dress, begrimed with the

dust from easy paracetamol, or another powder, etcetera. I ate your husband for lunch, with a side salad

of tartare bathed in scalloped eggs, etcetera. You are a line-break, an unpunctuated sentence, an unwaxed

lemon, and so forth.

By Courtenay Schembri Gray


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