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?
Drink in hand
Eighth one since I got here
I search the bar
Playing my game
Looking for the next chess piece to move
I pull off my rounds
Find another bird to sit next to
Gentle caress finger tips
A murmur in her ear
Asking where she wants to go tonight
Who’d she rather take out
The King or the Queen
Would she win or lose
Will I go home
Or will she play for another round?
I stumble away
When I’m done eating palm
And your raging rejection’
I can barely recite the sentence
The one playing on repeat
Since I figured what my dick was.
I see her across the bar
Hiding beneath curtains of hair
I don’t blame her
Her Small craters
Extra-terrestrial black hairs growing out of bulging moles
Zits on lumped cancerous, brick in a Ziploc bag tits.
If I hadn’t been a shot away from death I would have gagged
Even she sent me to another board
Saying “not tonight pal”
For another game of chess