RED drips from my chin where I have been eating.
Not all the blood, nowhere near all, is wiped off my mouth.

Clots of red mess my hair
And the tiger, the buffalo, know how.

I was a killer.
Yes, I am a killer.

I come from killing.
I go to more.
I drive red joy ahead of me from killing.
Red gluts and red hungers run in the smears and juices
of my inside bones:
The child cries for a suck mother and I cry for war.

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1 Comment

  1. ken says:

    Well about this poetry… it’s great many don’t know the real meaning of killing but it is the only real thing in this world in this fucking world of human and what ever you the truth is you will die in the end and that is the most important things you have to remember. All of us must be ready for it… i mean we must be happy be greatful for it and i consider it as gift to all and it is in you believe it or not you ain’t gonna scape it instead accept it and love it!!!
    (KILL YOUR FAMILY IF YOU WANT AND KILL THEM WITH A BIG SMILE)

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