John Grey

Big Joke

If there were humor in violence,
he’d chuckle at the set-up,
crazed fingers roped around
that marble blade festooned
with the goatish grins
of fat-tongued Babylonian gods,
and the telling would have
him in spittle-splashed stitches,
the hand jerked back.
like pulling on an invisible bow,
blade rising above his head
in tittering expectation,
mouth pulling hard against
a stiletto-toothed grin,
and the punch-line would
shatter his violent calm
to such an explosive degree
he’d be rolling on the floor
in a zephyr of flesh and bone,
writhing beside her,
move for move, note for gargled note,
swimming in the laughter
of her blood.

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