I cannot guarantee that I did in fact write the following poem which I found last week in a long forgotten notebook. But I think I did, having been forced to study Sylvia Plath at school and hating every second of it.


I could write like Sylvia Plath, I suppose;
I thought as the sky stared down at me,
like a Stalinist victim from Siberia,
wide eyed and naked and blue.
I sat in my study and thought as the radiator made a
clunk like a caveman clubbing his victim in a terrible sacrifice.
My lips moved as I thought, fat and
rubbery, writhing together like two earthworms
mating before being ripped apart by
a callous ugly toddler and left to die.

There would have to be horrible metaphors of course.