Martyrdom with Baby’s-Breath by Victor Clevenger

It’s morning again, nine-thirty,
and I contemplate
wielding a blade tough
enough to leave me in
lopped off legs, ears, a nipple,
nose, four fingers,
the smaller half of my cock,
and one arm . . .
probably the left one.

A twenty-five gallon pool of ice
in the bathtub vase
should keep me from a wilted
spoil until she comes home.
I hope she ate a
light lunch,
maybe I should leave her a
warning letter
on the front door.
The electric co. has been by twice
this morning already to
two-hundred and fifty,
so I’m apprehensive about
the letter idea; they will
be back again soon to
disconnect and if they read
what I have written down
for her,
then I’ll have a potential
intervention and
a busted down front door to deal
with — both would attract
all the beat cops
prematurely to trample down
the carpets. I give up.
The timing is horrible,
so I guess today isn’t the day
for the blade.

I’m a horrible activist.

The flowers in the
dirt gardens will have to fight
yet another battle alone.

Victor Clevenger - Copy

Victor Clevenger; With guts full of grit, I spend my days in a Maximum Security Madhouse and my nights writing poetry and short stories from the kitchen table of my ex-wife’s home. Selected pieces of my work have been published in Chiron Review, Eleventh Transmission, Crab Fat Literature, NEAT, and anthology collections published by Lady Chaos Press.


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