writers are
mass murderers
kill off characters
without a
second thought

like animals at the abattoir
there to be disposed of
at our pleasure

we do not
even feel the pressure
of what they suffer

(all that
bad Karma, rhythm, our
totally bad rap)

oh got that beat
in my head that
they even might
get to thank us for

that little
so little
life they had

the gifts bestowed upon them
the universe in which
life is (as Nietzsche promised)
eternal reliving, eternal

and so that pain, that suffering
stretched out to
infinity being
always re-read

like Christ on the Cross
jumping time, giving us
his death

extended into the very
essence of forever

moment by

hours of agony, divided amongst all
who lived, live, have
yet to live

moment by

pinprick by

drop of blood by
drop of

an ocean of soul in each
infinitesimal drop

(and so
the song


something special in

what it
how it now wraps)