Dagger (Surgical Edit)

There is no gelt
In this writing lark
No final reward
Just a hunger
An insatiable need
To press the keys
And play the notes
That fill the page

Typing done

I am alone

I work best alone

But I sleep best

With company

And it’s meant

To be that way

No virtual life for me

I love flesh and blood

For I was born

Of flesh and blood

To go the way

That all flesh does

Not prematurely

But after a long while

When I’ve perfected

My papers

And catalogued

My women

In alphabetical order

Or numerical significance

According to rank

And ability

All writing is futile

I can’t express how I feel

Not in so many words

I’d like to take my pain

Roll it into a ball

And stuff it in your mouth

So you’d be mute like me

Your seams leaking

Blotting your copy book

With a silent crimson scream

My credentials are impeccable

At least on paper, if not in the flesh

Your papers were forged

But I don’t mind

You brought me more pleasure

Than a thousand dead poets

“The only good poet is a dead poet.”

Isn’t that what you said?

Imposters pout and posture

Across the page

With borrowed icons

And stolen voices

Genius lays face down in the gutter

Death is the final measure

Of its dedication to the craft

But not for me darlin’

I want to be adored, at least once

However briefly

And in this life, not the next

Long ago

I abandoned rhyme

As I abandoned reason

I like my words jagged

As crocodile teeth

Dirty as a whore’s tongue

And rabid as the breath

Of infected dogs

I don’t require prettifying

Or disinfecting

Keep those nice words

For old ladies

To sprinkle on their cakes

I want you to feel me

In you

I have no time

For ambiguity

Or tickling ears

I want to ram my words

Right down your throat

One day I’ll find the beat

That forces the rhythm

Of my concoction

Into your heart

Like a fucking dagger