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Lament for Mr Hyde

Jamison Crabtree

I fold, I tug, then find myself
torn clean out of the picture. Can you tell the silhouette

from the man, the (be)fore from the back(ground and what
is under it). No, we were never any good

at discriminating one hell from another. A hell’s a hell and still

we suffer. Or I do. Ed(ward), a word, a name;
and Jane corrects my introduction

saying Jamison
isn’t mine, nor is Travis, and your name fits you like a suit on a duck.

Mr Hyde, You choose what to display. I wish I had your vanity.
The damned sleep surprisingly well.

Pain is rife with connotation; and who isn’t familiar with that?
I like violence because it’s guileless, because

it means what it means so let’s act frank.

All the Gods’ work amounts to little more than mischief.

Dissect miracle: the occasional hole in the hand, or a stone
that weeps, or a face stained wall (minor crimes, after all

is said and done). Ed, I know why you drink. I drink too, to
remember; and sober,

no one I’ve lost seems to matter very much.

Jamison Crabtree

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