Livid

A weal
A red stripe
Like a second mouth

Quiet it said
No more speaking out of turn.
No more.

Silence ensuing
Sullen, reluctant, afraid;
Silent all the same.

The lips of a wound
Have words to say
About anger,

Or rage
And the slag of hatred
It builds:

The sting
Of flesh on flesh
And the livid brightness
Of blood beneath skin.

© BH 2015

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Was it Shakespeare’s ‘poor dumb mouths’? Well, that was the image that came and it went from there. In a manner of speaking.

I don’t really do big time anger. I’m a grumpy sod sometimes and at worst I do the passive aggressive thing. But I’m curious at all the manifestations of ire. Especially in these days of tweetering outrage, tabloid calumny and generalised them-and-ussery.

I kept on writing. Realised there were two parts: Livid here and By Whose Righteousness . Somewhat connected. Companion pieces. That sounds cosy.