throat slit;
blood on his three-year old portrait,
lions dancing
and ducks upfront the door.
he swayed to the curlicues of jazz
with the knife on his pretty hand
spitting blood
on that sofa and remembered
the girl he screwed by behind
and slit her throat
to the curlicues of jazz.
damn the woman.
damn her feelings.
damn his apathy.
jesus he was crazy.
the good kind of crazy
which dances to the mania
of pure
fun.
it was fun.
he was guiltless.
blood spurted.
blood got out.
blood got spilled.
he was dancing.
damn, he was dancing
to the curlicues of jazz.
damnable woman's right eye
staring at him.
he shieked,
and laughed
and got near,
poked the eye
and ate
it.
it was fun;
didn't taste
good
but it was
fun.
Gloomy Sunday
wailing like a bitch
on her vintage radio.
Fuck off, he thought.
FUCK OFF!
melody curved like shit
and he was terrified.
not with the blood
nor the hollowed eye
nor the chickenshit face
nor the malfunctioning kidney.
but the song
menaced him,
tearing his skin
from the inside.
FUCK OFF!
Gloomy Sunday,
Hungarian suicide.
Ah, he thought,
you ain't getting me
you fuck,
you ain't getting me.
he went near the woman
and poked her belly
with the
knife.
poked her slow
then slow and hard
then fast
and hard
and fast, fast, fast
and poked crazy.
Jesus!
God wailing on the corner.
it felt like cotton,
the belly
and the insides
popping out of her.
it was dark red
and blue and green
then all mixed like
rainbows.
Rainbows!
it was good.
it was fun.
it was glorious.
no more Gloomy Sunday on radio.
no more wailing bitch.
just him laughing on the floor
with the malfunctioning kidney.
TV set flashing
Marilyn Monroe.
Marilyn isn't there, he said.
She's over here, you fucks.
Right here, he said,
and poked her belly,
watching M. Monroe
on that damned box.
the curlicues of jazz went on.
he stood up
and danced, danced, danced.
knife on his pretty hand,
he danced, danced, danced.
God wailing on the corner,
Marilyn on her couch,
lions dancing
and ducks at the door.
He danced,
and danced,
and slipped.
He slipped on blood.
Falling short,
knife spinning on his head.
Falling slowly,
spinning.
He laughed
and cried
and did both.
Knife spinning on his head.
Falling slowly, spinning,
sheeeek!
buried between the eyebrows.
the curlicues of jazz went on.
sun hit the sack
and the sirens wailed.
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