Eff is for Flight by BeaBop 

8 Jul

​F is not in my vocabulary
It’s not an English thing

It’s sticky

Makes me feel fudge, freshly, 

fixing feather to feet.

I force fortunes into fried cookies.
Eff it.
Before now, my heroes were always within Mouthy
Poets who wore cloaks held at the throat with stanzas

Throbbing with dead good poetry 

Cast into a press of oozing mud

Writing for their minds

To be frank

I needed to fear the feeling of the sunset shearing my confidence into splinters 

Of honey grating my ideas

There are limestone rock cliffs jutting out of Northern Vietnam

I want to lick them

Embed all my prose into each crevice 

Peel off my skin

Don a cloak 

And be the travelling heroine

Written in those lost leaves

Of thyme, mint and oregano.
An F now sits in my vocabulary 

And it’s about to take flight

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