Sex and Murder Magazine

By Joseph M. Gant

The softening of the heart
is halted sure by rigor mortis.
The rules of decay
are non-negotiable.

Flies with angel wings
deliver eyes unto
the glory in the circus
of the ticket redeemer.

Ink pours hard onto
my page, broken into
shards of what
the stitch-lipped cannot say
to me in words,
forever buried
in the wasteland of
the hour-glass tipping.

I lift the grain container
and I lay it on its side
to pause at least this
process moving
forward. All I want
is peace but vacuous minds
believe in peace
without
death's hard negotiations.