Sad mind,

under your dark cloud where cold rain propagated the poetic sense,

identifier of the dirty Jew.

That inward mind,

so conscious of body, mind full of dress,

were you coherent to all but yourself, on days

and constantly reversible on others.

Did you fuck and suck and lick your way around your set

midst daubs of paint and flowery words

that patted one back after another?

How high you thought, you flew.

How high you thought you flew.

Did you joy in pushing every social taboo

whilst thriving on the fear of sex;

of course the Guardian would love you

you twisted Democratic Socialist.

The feminist cannot avoid natural selection.

Rehearsing and preparing the ultimate statement,

your final statement,

to wallow in your sorrow.

Your real and sincere feeling,

that genuine pain, regret that you had taken

stolen, demanded and drained numerous concerned brows;

with nothing left to take, you took yourself.

Having reached the pinnacle of pity where was there to go

but the ever lasting compassion that comes with tragedy.

The enduring need, drive, craving for others to understand.

You Oused it.

An event that you never could describe you are unable to deny that

You have rotted, you have gone, just another pebble on the bank now,

nothing left but the memories of some

and your words for other needy seekers to attach themselves:

employed in professing their worthiness to them and their ilk.

You give them succour, perhaps that is your legacy,

to all others you are meaningless, nothing.