Tuesday, April 17, 2007

New poem


This is the burning eye hour,
the time of twitching limbs.
When the black hooded bully beast
circles, then leaps,
jabs his club
into the soft, tender places,
most easily bruised.
He tapes on wires,
and turns on current,
gags the freeing scream.

I hear him laugh,
when tired of his games,
he leaves,
stomping one last

boot print on my neck.
My Inquisitioner,
he is the camp guard,
the kidnapper
I kiss in Stockholm's way.

Copyright 2007.



Blogger TJ said...

[he leaves,
stomping one last
boot print on my neck] Oh yeah....you nail that one.
Missing you at Write Words.
Peace TJ

April 17, 2007 6:11 PM  
Anonymous Jackal said...


April 22, 2007 11:14 AM  

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