Lindsay Kemp 1973

White face, baggy white clothes, white gloves, a ruff.
We’re not his audience. Some sort of fop.
Some lordling, yells for every single drop
of blood and talent. Never quite enough

For his harsh masters. To a minuet
meticulous he takes care not to soil
white gloves – he pulls his guts out, coil by coil,
then with a slightly staggering pirouette,

tears out the last few inches. Wraps guts round
his neck like garlands. Bows, waits for applause
grins anxiously. Pain sweat drips from his pores.
Mouth rictus-wide, a scream without a sound.

He fears his lord will ask for something more.
Has no guts left to spare for an encore.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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