Deathtrap Poem by Walter Burns

Conformity's an old cuss
pitching forth from a scratchy throat.
A pawing fawn about to walk
on its own four letters
born minutes ago
in the black corners
filled with gobs of cobwebs.

Running along the mind
of spiders and
frightened flies
neglected
grand ecliptic
jagged jaded naiveté-
a scene of sensibility.

Or maybe it was to me,
in the corner,
sitting under the buzzing lamplight
interrogating my own blanket of blankness
of witness-words like good cop bad.

Just to be contrary
I’m spinning a story
about the pitfalls of love.