this has no title

these lines scrape
inside my head
like Paul Klee
scratching
painted red
or tap tap tapping
more and more
persistant raven’s
broken claw
broken strings
fed back on stage
smashed guitar
in fits of rage
though once
or while
ideas born
as these scraped lines
develop form
and so such pains
I tolerate
for from their
labours
one may create.

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