Sex and Murder Magazine

By David McLean

blood on the sheets like crumpled memories
they left there themselves

bruised like identities, their very selves
being the lesion, the egomimetic

ego, senses of empathy to blow out your ass
like the whore you are

while your god sleeps inside you,
probably terribly bored

by poems written through simple enumeration
of hopeless poetic tropes,

but there is blood on god's sheets—
this gives us hope