Literature
Killing Poetry (is easy)
All I left in you
was the dusty trail
of coffee,
but you should have
known that poets prey on
heartbeats, a throat
of hyperboles and the teeth
of an ink-claimed martyr
to swallow in, down,
every daydream you'd have seen
in the wells of star-struck eyes –
to breathe carbon-dioxide
to any starving molecule
of lungs you'd dare let rise
from the depths of
bloating pond-bellies;
and you should have known,
that once your heartbeat stopped,
I would burn through another
hibernator in another bout
of what my mouth
calls poetry.