wrenched words out of his skull. spatter spatter. the streetlamp burns oil. he wore spats on the first date. kept the gun close to his closet, enter night. he ran a cord across the linoleum where the carpet had been cut. the streetlamp red sheen. poetry is murdered. he ran into the streets screaming. tearing out hair, butterballed eyes, to be served in silver dishes. little treats for the rich bourgeoise.
i can’t bring myself to say I hate poetry. do you hate the mother shoved in little puppies? shoved little puppies into the sauce pot. boil her skin into little balls of poppies. she’s dead. and again don’t say that you hate her. i can’t bring myself to say i love poetry. poetry is dead. there will be no flowers. his suspenders sag. Myanmar Burmese dead. honeycombs break apart after the flood. my tears dear Aunt Emily, are burnished. polished cheek bones. rouge in streaks, my tears dear Emily, are pink.