The silly poem for Leo about rape, abuse and death.

Leo told me to write a silly little poem
about rape, abuse, and (of course) death
something light and airy, that recounts
the cracking of soul and bone
celebrates the lost and the meek, 
tastefully. 

I smiled, because Leo is exactly the kind
of kind man that one would never expect
to write an angry poem about the darkness.

Sure, I told him. Then my brain exploded
neatly in the sink. The rattling of shards
of skull was delicate, blood swirling
like a carousel around the aluminum drain,
and Leo sighed. The celebration over
tastefully.

I smiled, because I am almost that kind
of kind corpse that anyone would ever expect
to rot happily like a poem about the darkness.

Leo told me how he is duality encumbered 
with flesh. raped by the demons of a hard life
abused and disabused by every fetid notion
until a joyful death can save him from all
of this like a latex dildo saves a virgin 
tastefully.

I smiled, because I love the kind of marmalade appeal
of the kind of macabre joke so unexpected
tender sweet and bitterly delivered.

Sure, he told me, then he let my body collapse
neatly on the floor. The potoatoey thud of flesh
was benediction. Leo's demons flew away away
into the murk of my dead pan release. Around us
the mindless funk of nearly-dead gathered
tastefully.

I smiled, because I love the kind of story 
of the kind of girl who picks exactly the home
for the apparently slowly dying parent.

Leo told me my poem wasn't silly enough 
or about rape enough or about abuse enough
or death. But he liked the way my soul cracked
like knuckles and my bones where hidden in
the eyeless potatoes of my flesh. And i wrote in the dildo
tastefully.

I smiled, because rigor mortis is the kind
of kindness so intrinsic to my brand of corpse
apparently tender and sweet, but really an angry poem.

03/03/2009