Nice one, John, and I'm sure the highly contrasting style is the way to go. I've tried Sylvia Plath's version of "Oh that this too too solid flesh would melt..." But I suspect that the anguished Hamlet is too Plathy to begin with, and I'd have done better to try Betjeman or someone like that.
This stuff, all this flesh, I want it to melt
And turn to a dew.
Yes, I think I'll become a dew, but I do
Wish God was not so against the thing I'm good at.
Now the world has turned to a bad garden,
Swarmy with weeds. Because daddy, you bastard,
You died, and they stuffed you stiff
In wood, in a box like a piecase,
She and that crook, but look,
Before she's worn out those black slingbacks,
Her funeral shoes,so snug on her feet,
She's naked as a teacup and at it with him,
With my sexy uncle.
I seethe and I shriek at how quickly they started
Making the sheets messy.
But what can I do? Nothing.
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