I have for too long

Been the filament which heats

And squibs, first flicked on.


Like a silly girl,

Dies when she sees a spider,

Phobia on stilts,


Because of a life

Of waiting to see the thing,

An excuse to scream,


It runs and pants in

Gathering velocity

And bursts like a vein


Filling me with blood,

Hot and hilarious ache

Drowning my resolve


It runs in me, like

Gasping to die for the chance

To have laughed a bit,


The tight heat of lungs

Swelling as if infected

With the running cramp


I laugh my lungs out

And I can feel the hot wires

Whining in my chest


Hearty coughing clots

Hot with the blood of my chest

Swollen and wheezy


My body pounds itself

In elation, flushed like a

Sickness feverish


The unlit lightbulb

Defiantly sparks spits and flares

On touch, then warms out.



A lot of Plath again. In subject matter this really is a take on the works of a number of feminist writers, but really on a personal level it’s more about Stuff building up. Laughter, pain, tension, frustration: and then catharsis. Sprung, tight, powerful, accelerating, pacy, visually evocative and with a fair whack of internal half-rhyme, writing verse like this is itself a bit of a release. 


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