Tuesday, March 09, 2010

Poem: Returning to the Scene of a Murdered Metaphor

by Amy the Black

Your lungs are what I saw first, displayed on the window, those disgusting balloons gasping at the stale air.

Then your liver, sitting at the bar, drinking another cheap beer—the brand I can’t stand.

Your stomach sat at the table, reading a digest and devouring a nauseous meal.

Your eyes were playing pool, chalking up their sticks and trying to sink the eight ball.

Your dick was on the floor, flopping desperately like a fish out of water.

Your heart was lounging by the radio, tapping a ventricle to the beat of a song I’d rather forget.

But what I hated most were your guts, strung up on the ceiling, and clinging to the chandelier, oozing excrement onto the floor.

You were in pieces, and I was the suspect, so I turned a cold shoulder and ran.


colleen said...

We4ll done and just a little bit scary! Long time no read. Hi.

Jingle said...

vivid and smooth!

Jingle said...


take 5 awards first under this post,

Anonymous said...

wow..im so speechless..i like it :)

Brian Miller said...

oh wow...chilling...i like it!

ray said...

Very good. Like lovely revenge.

Linda Bob Grifins Brin Korbetis said...


Nice to see you today!