January 24, 2016 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING | 0 Comments |

I’m in love with a monster,

She means everything to me,

Goes out all night, I know not where

And comes home after three.

Wheresoever have you been?

She smiles negligently,

Never you mind; I think you’ll find

That you cannot suppose

There’s blood on my clothes.

So I pout, crinkle my mouth

And do a Bogart wince.

If she is stopped, will I be copped

For my silence then and since?


By Odilon Redon



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