It is no later than 7:30, the drone
of your box louder than the alarm
that I throw across the room
for welcoming me into this day.
I reach for you and your brothers,
like Ray pounding keys
slapping at the night stand
until the box scratches my finger tip.
I infiltrate your sanctuary,
tasting the disgust
of how few of you are left,
and steal you from the herd.
Rising from the tomb
You slip from my fingers
in one final attempt to escape.
Stupid, stupid, fellow you are.
As I stumble for the door,
your ass at my lips,
I panic in my pockets
looking for a spark.
Unable to make fire I turn and
bend to the stove letting blue flame
melt your face, you whisper "mercy"
turning tangerine in the nothingness of dawn.
I walk on the porch flicking
your dead skin away.
Hoping you'll burn long enough
to let me gain consciousness.
My father killed your cousins.
Men from the land of Thol,
they never stood a chance.
Then again neither do you.
I taste the sweet blend of 27
attempts for a perfect murderer.
Just as good as the first time
I bit, like a tick, into your ember.
And now you've smoldered to nothing
but a butt filled with sweet aromas
I was not lucky enough to absorb.
I flick your carcass to the lawn.
A funeral for a life, so dedicated to die for me.