My poem lay
in fragments
over my desk.

I tried to sculpt it to my will
but it only cut
my flesh -

tried for hours, days, weeks,
slicing myself more, coating it
with my dried blood.

Hordes of flies reveled in my poem.
Disease infested, it only grew
until that came

blasting through
my dead-bolt door.
Your toad of a poem arrived,

feasted itself on my massive poem
unyielding, even when it grew full.
It wouldn't stop

Exploding, a sickening squirt.
Flies, blood, entrails,
bile, and shards

enveloped me, my house
with a vast loden fog killing
my neighbor's pit bull.

I called you on the phone
said ****
said I had a twenty pound sledge.

A twenty pound sledge
and was coming over to thank you.