To kill a man is a thing
of beauty
Hold me not guilty of
insanity
Recall you not the weary
face
That served you treachery
above the ace
And yet in humming you
served them soup
And sang them sweet melody
till deep sleep
Did you not smile to your
other self?
As if you’d kissed the
gods of self!
To be killed is not a
thing to imagine
Cruel as the rape of a
virgin
Knowing now and before but
not the after
Moving away from the world
of laughter
with occasional spills of
blood and pangs of pain,
that cease after the washing of the stain
To the ends of bends and
blends
To kill you is a thing of
philosophy
Yields not sense and pays
not fee
Writes me off against
society
Places me at odds with a
deity
I do not preserve anger
worthy of the act
But shall write you off the
planks of history
If such is the desire of
poets born and gone