‘The glitter of the knife shimmered brilliant…’
‘Crimson carcass among life appeared alien…’
‘The unquenchable polydipsia for grume…’
‘The gory renaissance of a loon…’
Exhausted fell the quill on the wood,
The head on the tenement of the arms stood,
No fossiscker’s paradise this,
Hours of desolation from absolute bliss,
Grimy and uncertain, the ticks of the clock,
Tickled the neurons, crippled in mock
An alacritous surge when leapt the poet,
‘Erit Pragmatica!’. And he wore the gauntlet.
The rat of the sewer clung to the post.
Perusing his savings, a grinning ghost.
The handle of the knife grappled tightly,
The remembrances of all sights ghastly,
The eyes bloodshot prised in horror,
Mind and numbness sewed with a suture,
Pursuer and victim in the dance of death,
Emerging of the flash from the sheath,
The haphazard perforation in an act, bleary
Holy Water flowed among stones in a tributary,
Haematic intercourse with flesh,
Guttural moans percolating through a mesh,
Reached a cacophonic crescendo-
He staggered and stumbled, baffled,
Dropped to his knees, senses muddled,
Mouth contorted, lungs hoarse,
The unhindered anguish of remorse.
Below the artistic scribble of his name,
Completion saw the poet proclaim,