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  • Seravi Harris

The Unattached Poet


“Poetry?

No, I don’t do poetry.

At least not “Deep.”

Casual poetry?

Yes, Like casual hookups.

Of course, I think Love must be “Deep”

Attached,

Meaningful,

Mean something.”


“But no, not at a party.

We leave that all behind,

We’re animals tonight.

Unattached and alive.

Bask in the club’s musty air,

The sweet smell of youth;

A concoction of stolen cigarettes,

Forbidden bud-

And liquid courage for

The underaged weak.”


“Our colours are twisted and turned;

our animals form,

the monkeys snatch the drinks,

the rabbits bounce in dark corners,

and the cougars come crawling

on the open dance floor.

No time for “Deep”

‘We’re all mad here’

Enjoy the tea

It’s a party after all.”


The final song plays

the rabbits finally come out,

the monkeys hop on stage,

while the cougars are watching hungry below.

The moment is fleeting

The animals will take back their lifeless colours.

“Deep”?

Is it time for “Deep” yet?

Time for poetry?

For “attachment”?

The word, full of distaste,

Like when the sick reaches my mouth.

The comfort of the storm has passed,

but chaos of the mundane remains,

and my thoughts are erratic.

Come back, No not really.

Don’t.


The song is over now

And the party?

Well the animals are lost.

She asks again about the poetry,

The parties,

The hookups,

And the animals.

I’ve already told her

too much,

Yes, “Deep”.

Time for Love and poems?

“No, let’s just run-away and detach”

But instead,

Poetry wills me to say

“I’m attached”.