Poetry Archives

Red drips from my chin where I have been eating.
Not all the blood, nowhere near all, is wiped off my mouth.

Clots of red mess my hair
And the tiger, the buffalo, know how.

I was a killer.
          Yes, I am a killer.

I come from killing.
          I go to more.
I drive red joy ahead of me from killing.
Red gluts and red hungers run in the smears and juices
     of my inside bones:
The child cries for a suck mother and I cry for war.