the platitudes of willful resemblance

the poet’s word albatrossed
to the secret villain,
hanging on like stink
from decadent fish.

this is our RSVP, their
invitation to KILL POETS.
not with censorship,
with bullets.

 – Hoc Scripsi

I have a minor obsession with being assassinated, I think I’ve mentioned this before but sometimes we all repeat ourselves don’t we. Maybe in a past life, somewhere in Argentina or El Salvador I was disappeared permanently. The victim of some nations dictator extreme rendition.
Or maybe I was a cuddly bunny rabbit in hunting season. If so I hope that my name was Theodore and the family that ate me enjoyed the meal.
whatever I was, now I am a poet and consider it a poets duty to be a threat to both the vox popoli and the powers that be.

this is how I get after storing things in the attic, small confined space and all.