I've chosen my weapons carefully
safe in my alabaster chamber.
Bombs are boredom, the knives are dull.
What I speak of contains more beauty than what's in the shine of a reflecting metal.
What I speak of is bolder than steel.
Murder is an art, suicide a craft,
both of which demand a refined clarity of mind, a perfectly defined concentration
being an exercise in destruction.
And how would you go about it?
How would you or I fall? Ammonia or Chloride?
Absinthe or Peroxide? Bright fluorescent napalm?
A clean chemical poison?
The skin peeling slowly back. Something combustible,
an implosion one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine leagues under the sea,
I can hear the sweet crackle of bones below water when they cave in.
Or a live burial in an ice floe, your mouth a wide open scream,
silently preserved for another billion years.
And what about cement, cold, thick and heavy, poured into you,
every orifice encased, sealing shut the deeper regions.
Would you like it better that way?
Maybe accupuncture, like threading in the eye of the needle with whatever you wish:
crushed glass, barbed wire,
the measures are endless, a real means to an ending.
For example,
a death by paper cuts?
Pissing on a high voltage line to the subway track?
Jumping off from swings & balconies is so predictable. It's been done
countless times before.
Give me a swan dive from an airplane without a parachute 30 thousand feet into the erupting volcano.
Think of the sight you'd have all the time in the world to see.
Give me meathooks in flesh, fish-hooks in eyes,
Some new raw fracture, taking up arms against instincts & everything ordinary or plain.
Give me an obscure murder instead.