what to call this murderous game
this poetry of a moth flying to flame
like a fanatic’s hunger in his book
fed by faith and hook or
crook
like a suicide seeking a
glistening vein
a bathtub brimming with bright
red stain
like an echo in a
mountainous range
at once familiar, at once
strange
like booze, cocaine or any such drug
imbibed easily with barely
a shrug
like a child showing off a
new big word
something he’s sure you’ve
never heard
like a recurrent old forever
nightmare
that delights as much as
it does scare
like birds to flight and fish
to water
and sometimes also like goats
to slaughter
we rush to each other broken
and bruised
ready for using, ready to
be used.
