Might Black as Night

Have I put it into your head?

. . . blood was on her mind,
she was hell-bent,
and quivering with fire
a nightmare portrait
fisticuffs
and empty emblazoned,
full rage
like a tire fire
instigated with motor oil
circle mind
black wisps
it was slit or kiss,
death or depth of
flavor
in madness and
rituals of remembering
prokaryotic assemblage.

A butterfly flits across the room.
Flit. Flit.
A butterfly flits across the room.
Flit. The dog leaps off the couch,
catches butterfly, knocks butterfly
down, traps butterfly, tears off
butterfly head, eats.

Where have you gone Steamy Nix?
And where will you go again,
and when?
and then, she was back up again,
pushing and biting
lashing and pumping
fist after fist into stump
of meat and biscuit,
a urinal cake of dilemma
washes over her heart,
as a fountain of desire
pushes her onward
over mountain night
and into desert morning
mourning the loss of
Johnny, Johnny Liver J
a stump of raw
and a pump of blaw
and he pushed himself over
snowy night and snowy dawn
of day,
with a mouthful of guts
steaming every smile
he gives,
a fist in the heart of his eyes
Can there be forgiveness
in the consumption of a liver,
such as this?
He smiles his steamy smile and
knows above all knows
that this is not so.
The liver is an organ of vengeance,
built of tissues of revenge,
assembled of cells that long ago forgot
the meaning of compassion.

You push me, Mr. Bank Manager, to force
my breath up close to yours,
and crumple your tie in my hands,
and issue this warning thus,
I've separated many men from the world
of the living, and I'm fixing to liberate
another if this deal doesn't go my way.

But I scoff, it's another day.

I roll over, the deep scar,
the impact of red hot sword fire
deep into my cage,
has already been repaired.

You know this is all true,
Mr. Silencio.