Within me I harbor a deep unforgivable empathy for Jeffrey Dahmer
and a cognizance of how such stilted alienation could so wickedly labor
when a wound drinks itself into homicidal solipsism and builds a throne
out of utopian skulls in a downmarket Wisconsin living room. I know the
blood of the life of the jilted mind, I know how to make the misery a kingdom
this dark magic, this negative power, is forged in lonely ambles through the
catacombs of propriety—influence unearned but achieved by toxic hazing
a rented room, a sick alley, the dark corners of an unwholesome club, there I
am, with you, drilling a tiny hole into your brain, trying to make you into
something I can finally control, a zombie, the only being I believe I can love.
Come back to my place with me for beer and company, gore like chocolate
hot sperm crying down the brown nudity of a corpse: unhouseled, lessening.
Skin dissolves in acid, bones by a sledgehammer are crushed into powder
what I can take as the evidence of my capacity I will enshrine with laurels
or gaudy spray paint, but the proof of my hunger and my failure must be
disposed of in simmering barrels, tucked underground, inside recesses, flushed
down the toilet, the hair sealed in bags, each lip eaten—penises separated.
A rabid beast stalks down the main avenue of this pathetic town and citizens
cower in buses and behind the smudged glass of public foyers. No disaster
is as complete as the gorgeousness of my imagined dominion, I will destroy
in my small reality what you could never possibly begin to fashion and in
doing so in my kitchen, through evil experiments, I have made this part of
my fascination something to be reckoned with and in sharing it with you
we’re alive, famous, full of light. We kill what we can in our own way
we live and kill what we can (because otherwise there’s never any chance).
I yearn, and I want to be touched, and to love, but worlds won’t have me
when the lightening shoots out of the emperor’s hands—it’s only a movie.