Just a little hint for the fair reader who traipses through this link; this poem is not about self-mutilation in any way, though mutilation of another person is certainly on the mind of the narrator. Capice?


So sick of waiting around for you;

so fucking ambiguous -

a knife can cut both ways,

if you press

-so hard-

on that dull edge.

At least then

I'll know,

that your suffering has

equaled my own.

But until that time of

blissful

retribution comes

(a knock, knock, knockin')

I guess I'll just wait

fingering that sweet blade;

legs crossed, cigarette

in hand, listening to

preachin' on the radio;

(just fucking) waiting till

I can spread the Hallelujah Gospel

of vengeance.