D.O.A.
Inspired by Ann Charters’ nightmare
I shut my eyes and imagine the
satisfying scrape of the knife paring
clean my bones,
used to scribble in future quarterlies
the writer’s bifocals are smudged with
facial grease, adjusted throughout the
short days of citations, half-assed cold press,
half-smoked cigarettes, half-ass masturbation
They utter, “At least I’m a decent-looking leech.”
They shrug and refill the cartridges with more blood.
try as they might, the beloved ashes
have scattered to the tightest crooks
that elude every form of floor cleaner
They groan, “The haze of creativity always irritates my eyes.”
all those considerate parasites observe the
creative-polluted city skyline
wisps of cremated authors joining
the celebrity secondhand smoke
They grow bored of their favorite rotten corpses, even after the…
