Don’t by Neil Fulwood

The moonlight, the bellboy and the boogie
would like to know why all this blame.
The fine city of Rio echoes the query.

The woods, the old dark house
and the basement of said property
are curious why they have such a bad rap.

My blue suede shoes might like to be stepped on,
and while you shouldn’t go breaking my heart
great art is often wrung from a skewered aorta.

The deadly sins of umpteen holy texts
would like it known that “thou shalt not”
is “don’t” plus VAT and therefore as tempting

as blaming that wanton surge of passion
on the Rio moonlight and a boogie-ing bellboy,
blaming the madman’s axe-swinging rampage

on a poorly-lit cellar and a stretch of woodland,
blaming the lachrymose strains of a pop song
on a broken heart and a pair of shoes.

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Jeremiah Walton

Jeremiah Walton is wary of writing a bio.

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