a poem by Scott Orris

Postmodern Suicide

Staring at my pristine hand,
I begin to chop off the long bony fingers
of my left hand one by one with a cigar cutter,
letting them roll to the floor
in a pit of crimson waste.
I mean what good is a hand if it never helps another?
Just another form of masturbatory elitism,
contrived by a wise generation
eating their children in pies baked by Narcissus.

© by Scott Orris

 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #5 ~ September 2009