No to the quiet, no to the calm;
I am noise – rancorous, riotous,
the beckoning of the storm, the storm
imbibed. I am not silenced by spectacle,
I am not deterred by passive aggression;
I am bespoke cacophony – tailored
from the finer wavelengths of thunder,
the cracking of bones and the soliloquy
of doors slammed by gales of infuriated
indignation. Do not sit there and listen;
sit the fuck up and shake in your boots
because I am unforgiving; I am not humble
in my honour and in my passion,
and when I wield my scythe, I yield
to nothing amidst a dance of destruction.
I will no longer allow my rough edges
to be shaved and sandpapered to civility.
I will clank about in that damn box of a cliché
until you grind your teeth in despair:
I will always have something to say,
I will always say it without hesitation,
You won’t just sit there and listen,
You will feel my wrath swell in your womb.