Categories
Poetry

WHAT I KILL

     Tip of the smith hat to Rudyard Kipling

If I could reach back and flush myself

like the piece of shit I am.

If I could under the sole of a boot

squish my centipede soul,

contemplate with a grin

the guts-clotted legs twitch.

If I could torch to hell

my slum of a life.

Then might I hold my head high

up my own ass, proud

of the abomination, the impotent rage,

the loser lust, the petty vindictive spite,

say nothing of, oozing down the mirror,

over my eye, the spit. A tiny gnat,

a nit, surfing a saliva bubble,

shrieks, “Save me! For breakfast, at least,

you ghoul, you clown, you horrid shit,

save me!” But no sweat: 

I never eat what I kill.

Fail even to know,

except in pixels like this,

time frothed to defy belief,

what I kill.                

Willie Smith

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