The Angry Charm of a Bloodclot Prole

You know me to be a charming man, unfailingly polite and full of love for the world and all of god’s creatures. But elections, especially presidential elections, bring out the worst in me. As is amply demonstrated by this poem, which I would ask you not to share with the authorities:

My teeth are hungry.
They are running with spit,
clicking together menacingly.
My lip is curled,
not sensuously like Elvis
but rather like a wolf,
in preparation of ripping asunder,
in preparation of receiving meat.
There is a low sound in my throat,
I am hiding it to cover my approach.
My eyes are dry, they sting,
I cannot blink, I remain focused.

Hooks;
hooks through the bloody shirts;
bodies suspended above screaming crowds;
necks mercifully severed by looped piano wire;
bound wrist and ankle, blood running, clotting;
glassy eyed stares and protruding tongues;
the terrified cries of children;
bodies, signs around the necks, hanging,
“I Sold You For Gold;”
signs of angry recrimination.

I could not be angrier if they pulled Jesus off the cross and took turns fucking the body;

I could not be angrier if they used the blood of my children to toast the triumph of heretics;

I could not be angrier if the sun came up in the west and consumed the world;

I could not be angrier if I woke up and discovered that I was a boy who had dreamt a terrible dream and was dying.


September 19, 2008; transformed from prose

Ony, thanks for reminding me that it is good to vent negative energy. I feel much better now!