Take the cadavers shopping,
In hope that the dead may understand our plight,
Bring forth the corpses to parade our wars,
Let them march our streets to witness our wares.

Let the dogs of hell loose upon our pets,
To feast upon the bones we throw away,
Like our guilt feasting upon our entrails…

But the breath runs coarse, the pointed finger grows old,
The poems grow familiar and the mould grows richer,
And the heart sinks into the pockets of those that remember
And the bowels grow weaker and the veins sigh rougher
And the darkness beckons brighter and the wind howls never
And the poem sinks deeper and deeper into shallow waters
And is washed up…

And you, the poor soul that reads this, knows that Plato might have been right:
Exile the poets. What right have they to be wrong?