How to Murder a Poet

Hasty rambling

There was a time before writing when the bard memorized a million lines.

There was a time when the troubadours invented the lie of love, many seek it, write about it, and lie they have it, but it is a dream they made up and only real while imagined like costume players at a comic convention. 

Love and superheroes are only real when you pretend, but such fun it is.

The maintenance man used his passkey to open the apartment when the neighbors couldn’t tolerate the smell.

The poet hung himself, but only the blundering fixit man, the police, and the coroner know how so I cannot say.

The poet had spent years out west wandering as an alcoholic.

This is an age of rappers and pornography, self-released blooper sex tapes to stay on television, and lying you had a racist experience so the news will mention you again like in the days when you mattered.

What is a poet in the land of Human Centipede?

The landlady raised the rent every year just because that is the squeeze.  They grab a n****r by the toe and if he hollers let him go.

It is one raise too many.  I made an oath that it would never be again and it came again so I moved away.

The drunken poet walked to work every night to empty the trash and clean the toilets at a bowling alley.

The poet saw art at the bowling alley.  While their brats ran about a hall of drunkards in only a diaper, their parents made art with empty beer bottles in their mounds of feces, with their garbage on the tables, by plunging an old cigarette into a cupcake. The art was everywhere and now you know what Hell uses as decoration - the filth of stupid people.

His boss was a Christian that paid him under the table to avoid taxes and give him less than minimum wage.

Woe to the drunken poet in the land of Human Centipede.

He taught me all he knew in his drunken diatribes.

I moved away.

He had no friend.

He hung himself.

That is how you murder a poet.

All hail the Human Centipede!

Where would the world be without bad poets?

Without them, no one would exist to read the poetry.

It used to matter what came out of your mouth.

Now what matters is what goes into it.

Just ask the Human Centipede.