Friday, October 24, 2008

Plotless Violence

who's the author in my life?
seemed he'd been there all along:
pen cutting careful as a knife
to outline and define
the goodness and the strife,
the borders and bound'ry lines,
the direction I drive,
each lesson learned right or wrong.

seeing no plot develop,
no mind there behind the scenes,
I realize my frustration:
taking the pen, turn it knife
blade like on my desperation
and murder it bloody,
finally hitting the mark
of my war upon it.

thought there was a plot,
thought a climax would come,
but nothing happened
to satisfy the story;
now I dance among the entrails
of my dead desires,
taunting dignity with
my macabre mockery.

(from September)

1 comment:

Paul Bernard said...

I hope you have more luck with the plot of your novel than the plot of life. ;-)