Marching Orders
Poetry
in its refined, unwavering, unconcerned form
is not pretty
It grabs you by the throat
and places you in the mirror,
naked, framed, revealed
with your daily frauds
and innermost forgeries
Most of you simply play poets,
to glaze and enamel
your all too human filth
Poetry is not an embrace,
but a hard slap in the face;
a tough roll call
and stone cold marching orders
All your pretty faces are denied
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2022-07-29 at 10:17
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