Sex and Murder Magazine

By M.P. Powers

I am wearing the murdered clothing
of last night, my hands are cold, my feet
-----sore and I'm standing over
the mossy tomb of monsieur
-----somebody
nobody knows. apparently he was
a field general in some historical battle -
-----heroic and bold,
all his love affairs, nights on the insidious
-----boulevard rochechouart,
the peculiar way he'd tap his congowood
-----cane and make the pigeons scatter.
monsieur somebody
-----means nothing
to me, but as I stand over his grave
in the murdered clothes of last night,
-----a little sunlight pours
through the trees. it warms my face and
hands, fills my blood with its
-----strange juices: life,
courage perhaps, that long dead friend.