I wrote I spoke I drew, by Patrick Williamson

I am not a silent poet

………………they assassinate him
………………they flee his pen
………………they penetrate the forest
blazing out from rolls of print

that trio in the doorway, that
dancing to the dark blue wave
passes for the experience of love,
tread and nudge bodies aside

curiosities to the Charlie
who does nothing, stirred
& morals aghast, who keeps looking
at the Christian host
isolated among its brothel neighbours
to say I think, I am, I draw

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