Overkill (poem)
We talked and I said the same stuff as before,
Illustration by Foul Apparatusand he listened patiently as if my words were new.
I felt ashamed, like a comedian
using the same material.
I meant to say, "I'm sorry my friend, I had no time;
No time for new music, movies, books,
no new words,
no good words,
no words buzzing with electricity.
And later on, I whispered to him,
in our solitude,
when whisky loosened my lips:
"We were sold for nothing, amigo,
sacrificed to a senile god,
and abortions can't even dream of orgasms.
We work here at the slaughterhouse,
Although they don't let us call it that.
We learn how to make nooses
out of umbilical cords,
and cement screaming mouths with boredom.
They even robbed us of our screams,
let alone our words.
Listen to those hammers knocking!
They're building the gallows
to hang the stillborn
who drink whisky,
and can still whisper."
