I Will Not be Shouted At

by Chris Valliancourt

The lift and strain of traffic as it slides

down cool November streets.

A hustle and bustle, hurly-burly, ingested

kind of day.

A distinct flavour of of washing soap

faded in my mind.

Movement to the left, movement

to the right. Tossing my arm out

like a military no-mind I stomp

through the blaze of the grey.

“I will not be shouted at!

I will not be ignored”

Dead brown grass blowing like

spiders weaving insect repellent

parading on the ground.

The sound of shuffling feet echoes

like ice picks in my ears.

Floating in mid-sentence, I only

speak when I am inclined.

“I’m no longer inclined to want

to share with you.

I am no longer interested

in conforming to the norm.”

Saws are buzzing angrily as

they work to take the trees away.

Flies hide like lepers in the

dung hills of their alarm.

November came complete

with a whimper, a strangling

sort of no nonsense vowels.

Inside, the cough drop melts as

it slides down my throat.

I’m prisoner and jailer,

executioner and saviour.

“I’m not to be hurt.

I’m not to be insulted.”

Closing coat around emancipation.

Shutting mind to ulterior motives.

Outside the frolicsome emptiness

motivates another crowd to survive.

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1 Comment

Filed under Issue 3, Poetry

One response to “I Will Not be Shouted At

  1. kaneissik

    good read

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