Ted Bundy was as much of a Poet as a killer. He playfully crafted words knocking down walls, potential growing, with a jury dedicated to justice. Would the women, and daughters die on the page the way they had at the end of his fingers. I fear we’ve lost the literary giants of our time to the literal. They kill off their characters off of the written page; terra.
Could the cults, blood thirsty, writhing with union hold the Allen Ginsbergs, the Walt Whitmans, the Franz Kafkas? In a time where the only thing to fear is your own children, to be a genius may mean insanity.
What beautiful tragedy lies within the confines of John Wayne Gacy? What were the last thoughts before the planes hit and bodies fell from the sky like unfortunate hail?