A man of dark skills
no moral sense at all
I rise above a great stone
in my path, to hunt
and crush people
with a cigarette in my fingers
a holdover from a medieval world
enjoying despair, hair-tearing,
and noisy grief.
I had loved deeply
a variety of hopeless people
chiefly old men,
now my heart is a coffin of oak
I am cold, as white as a corpse,
my eyes are fixed upon empty graves
full of bags of money.
I want to weep, but no tears come.
With a sweet smile
profuse with flowers, I’m free
from the umbilical embrace of emotion—
I can hold out my hands before me
and feel the waves of time.