AN ACT OF MURDER

I have committed an act of murder.

My Super-Ego had become

overbearing

and abusive

so I killed him.

I had to.

It was an act of self-defence

but

it was murder.

I killed him with a

rubber

jeweller's hammer

It took a long time.

A very long time.

At one point during the murder,

we both got bored.

But after hours

of steady

rhythmic

blows

he finally gave in

his final death rattle

clamouring

from the shale of his throat,

a cloud of

volcanic ash

Slick and

covered in viscera,

the makeshift placenta

of my rebirth,

I manage a smile.

I am free.

My Super-Ego is dead.

I buried him behind the shed

where I keep 'Intro to Calculus'

and inappropriate schoolyard touches

It's just me and the Id now.

For someone afraid of heights

and prone to motion sickness,

life as a rollercoaster has been

an adjustment.

I am delirious with joy

and vertigo,

waving a victory flag

and an airsick bag.

I'm sure that I speak for us both,

me and the Id,

when I say it's as good

as he said

it would be.

As we brace ourselves for the next descent,

the spiral and the corkscrew,

he grips my right hand

tightly with his left.

In his other hand

he holds

a sticky

rubber

jeweller's hammer.

And he smiles.

WHEN I WAS 10

When I was 10

I wanted to be an artist

but I was slow

and clumsy

and I had nothing of value to say

When I was 20

I wanted to be a punk

but I had too much respect

for personal hygiene

and authority.

When I was 30

I wanted to be a goth

but I loved the sun.

Now I am nearly 40.

I make a living as an artist.

Perhaps at 45

I shall be an anarchist,

a salt and pepper blight to a government

gone fascist.

At 55

I'll be a vampire,

taking refuge in darkness

blood

pine and soil.

And finally, at 60,

I will have something of value to say

to my clumsy

confused

children of the night

who snicker at the notion

of some mortal coil.

ULTRASOUND

Lipoma, lymphoma,

the cancer

and the KY

cold and slick

This is the closest I'll get

to looking for life

growing inside of me

The technician said a drunk lady showed up one day,

made the place stink of booze

then headed straight back out to the bar.

A shotgun ultrasound.

She wouldn't even remember she had gone

But might wonder at the clear smears

inside her shirt the next morning.

Or wonder, later that week,

who it is that would bother to call her on the phone

instead of texting.

The technician apologized for the colour of the gown.

I said it brought out my eyes.

BABBLE ON, BABYLON

Brick by brick

they build my new Tower of Babel. 

Untamed by the stratosphere,

ignoring the constant tug and taunts of gravity,

progress is swift.

Step by step,

heaven-bound and hungry

to desecrate the Pearly Gate,

they build ever skyward.

Eagerly

I await the fall of the Tower.

Through ruin

comes creation

and you can bet your Divine Behind

that before the ashes settle

I've begun plans to rebuild.

Far below,
bewildered men 
meander the city streets

spouting signifiers,

flaccid and forgotten,

soon abandoned

then

frustrated

hurling a flurry of impotent signs

upon eyes gone blind

whipping up a cloud of confusion

that fells

their bridges

of popsicle sticks,

the toothpick tower

not far behind

Storeys above,

gazing out the window

on the 16th floor,

I am oblivious

My eyes, gone glassy, are locked

on the wing-footed apparition

circling the rooftops

warning in her metallic voice

“everything he touches, he breaks”