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Therapy I discovered how cheap therapy is the day I realised I’d already paid for most of it in advance. You asked me about my resentment of you and the money you must take, and I called you a car repayment: if I resent anything, it’s the need to write this poem. With all its symbols and allusions therapy is no substitute for poetry: its tears are an anti-romantic disinfectant, a sorrow to side-step because it’s genuine pain, not its simulacrum in a bunker all gaudied up for a May Day parade of arid diorama and cupidity's blind arrows flying wildly at eye-level. If you’re lucky I might tell you something one day, but my official carrier pigeon has wings that beat silently with shame. |
Additional Notes:
For Sue Austin.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2005-11-26 12:13:28
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.82353
Minky.
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