by Fiona Sinclair
At first, she experimented with outlawed words,
whose pronouncement was God’s forbidden language,
until all the words became blunt.
Once she unleashed an exhilarating curse.
Her reckless aim proved a lucky shot, piercing
the heart of a stranger’s worst fear.
Yesterday, swollen with much rage, she
gave voice to Munch’s scream but learnt
that her rage has the power of hydric regrowth.
Now fantasies of cartoon violence
riot through her mind; whilst overlooking
your bad manners, she is hacking off your head.
Soon she will lose herself in the moral blind spot
of her fury where virtual violence will
no longer satisfy the secret pleasure of anger.
Then carrying her anger like a homemade bomb,
triggered at the slimmest provocation,
she will sacrifice her dignity in a public frenzy
more shocking than squatting in the street.