i see your edges and your calm

i see how you push through round doorways as a triangle

i see how you roll uneasy

i see you sand yourself away to a viscous nub

but it grows back doesn’t it,

the shape reforms grotesque

and it disgusts you doesn’t it

it holds you in its grotty hand and when you look back

you’re confused by the concern of strangers

triangle bastard, poor sod,

you’re not a circle my love, you silly shit

you’re a pointy fucker with internal angles adding up to 180 degrees


point the other way

maybe you can make yourself useful as an arrow

the circles are twirling shit-bags anyway, haven’t you seen them try and fill a corner, they’re no Frances Houseman fgs, I can tell you that for a fact

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