Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Provisional - A poem

...when I opened my eyes
and gave my first gasp,
written in as the victim of a predictable murder mystery, while
the butler tied nooses and shuffled books away to their shelves
200 Accidental Deaths; Poisons Around the World -
and wiped the knives down,
while wishing me good night,
the woman across the hall
was tearing pages from my diary
burning them (with a smile)
in a silver dish.
“It’s all the same,”
he said (over the typing from down the stairs) -
the greasy writer who added,
“Every one of those stories begins with a death and ends with explanations you can’t believe,
but every true story works in reverse,”
and I saw I had to go
the clock was ticking, all ominous cliché;
turning the corner
and hitching a final, half-breath,

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