What’s a dead body got?
lips that rust purple, even when the skin is black as coal.
slit wrists, split skull,
can you stomach it?
or has it got,
wounds that will re-open,
voodoo jangling all over it,
little altars,
dead tears of libation to a thousand tiny gods.
Has it got a bullet?
Yes? tell me the size.
was the assassin decent?
did he use stainless steel so it wouldn’t rust?
or did the bullet shoot through clean,
and run away from death.
and maybe, if he died from alcohol,
it’s still on his stale breath,
like that man you kissed in his dark bed.
so tell me, my dear,
when he sat in that bathtub and pulled the trigger,
do you think he knew the answer to his question?
A dead body’s got no love,
I’ll tell you that.
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