Sex and Murder Magazine

By Joseph M. Gant

the victim of a violent spree,
stray keystrokes through your brain,
meant for the face of god but

missing. the mark was off; it
wasn’t me who fucked it up, they were
merely misfired words that killed
your pretty little life.

and I stand above
your soft and dying day; grocery list in a twitching hand,
car keys fallen by your side.

the fluids spent I see, however grammatically
incorrect, on pavement where you stood,
speak well the writ I made for him
who does not answer messages more subtly made.