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.