Me-Hunting
So, I’m the speaker of this poem
and pardon my hasty speech
but I’m just one text-space ahead
of Xylok. (He’s looking for me,)
and I would rather speak MY head
than his, or history’s.
He wants me to be a murderer!
First-person stuff, real sick!
I want to be a sheep herder
(and carry that really cool stick.)
If Xylok has his way with me
I’ll probably gut your friend.
That, or even possibly
chew her apart at the limbs
because he’s into overkill
and likes his stanzas grim -
likes adding lines about the thrill
inherent in peeling off skin
and drying it out in the wind.
But I have dreams my own, you see,
that put his dreams to shame
and underneath my canopy
are thoughts not his to claim!
I have my own poetry
and house no other’s name!
I want to tell a story
of the man inside who tends
to sheep, yes, EVERY ONE of them
as though each were his friend
because they ARE his friends.
But Xylok’s got his pen out
and he’s searching hard for muse.
I have to keep on moving
or I won’t be here to use...
I feel his neurons grooving
out a path behind my shoes.
He’s going to catch m...
...I like to find my victims where
the city streets are dark.
I choose at random - just don’t care.
Maybe that guy at the park...
caught me
