Call In The Killer

This Is Not A Poem!

My brain is toast lately, and my nerves worse. I've started working on a long poem (200 lines or ao) for the first time in a long while. It constantly wants to get longer and I want it to shut up and stay reasonable. I may have to call up the mericless pest control operator (aka Exterminator) aspect of my soul! But it is not much to talk about, even when I get it finished--it will be too long to spark much interest here, and almost the same if I place it in my poetry blog. I have now worked on the poem so long (so many versions, I mean, this past two months) that I'm puking-sick of it and I don't yet think it's finished. Maybe close to finished, but that's all. I'm hanging up on it for now. If I don't finish it before I die, they can bury it with me. Poetry always loves dead things; often enough, it tries to jump in bed with death. So when I say "Fuck it", things must be pretty bad or about to be