The man in detention says
I want to hurt somebody. He has a glass eye,
and with the other peers through the wicker.
Another man puts a slash through his clothing:
perhaps it’s the music.
No, you understand, not unbalanced: just
with a great desire that overwhelms like sea-wave.
Strike out the decorous: even hunting won’t do.
I want to hurt somebody, possibly myself.
Take a little fucking step. George Orwell understands debasement:
a boot stamping on a man’s face — for ever.
There are so many things left incomplete,
a woman holding a dead doe by the chest, up
up to the light. . .
a deliberate step over the cabling. There are two parts to life:
the rage, and the submitting.