To hear the barely whimpering whispers
and the hardly audible gasps
of a poet conflicted
That kind of moody essay drama

To write of the air
and the shading of rocks on hilltops
in the sun
Some kind of mellow uncomfortable quirkiness
The words won't even bleed though the pulp

To write again of love
and again and again of love
would be just too numbing

No sense of achievement when
the quill kissed the parchment goodnight

So out front I will write of Sadists
Incest and Murderers alike
From the corners of Necro drive
to the highest peaks of pedophilia tower

From the cannibals to the Rockies
I will claim I know what I'm saying
And if it's good enough
And enough people get fucked in the poem
You might just believe me

I used to see her on hilltops
in the gray shaded cliffs
On the visible wind she cried out for me
and love again came dipping its pig rotten snout
where it always tried to belong

May the victims in my writings
all rise from the dead
As roped wrists on bedposts untie themselves
and plastic bags unseal internal organs
and unsuffocate bloated lungs
May knives fly from chests and
back into the hands of the killer

May every wound be sewn
and every blemish powdered down
because today I stopped chasing her
Today she turned around

06/01/2008