Reading a Good Poem

By Carl-Johan Mellin

 

Bang! Goes the gun, and smoke is seeping from

the barrel to the perpetrator's eyes.

Revolver was my way to go today,

tomorrow will just be a different way.

It’s such a lively way to go, and yet

my vivid words have met an even match.

Perhaps I lack imagination, or

there’s just a rift between my mind and all

the means to make it out. Perhaps it's just

the fact that I got shot by shells of ink.

 

I look and see the ruptured abdomen,

and watch the crimson water flowing out

in gushing streams. The quantity seems far

enough to fill a barrel, leaping from

the Niagara falls. But then I find

what’s most peculiar. My blood is full

of words, it’s cluttered, to the point where blood

is really drenched in words. Abstract and too

complex, in every color that a word

can come. On paper they’d be messy, though.

 

I look into the perpetrator's eyes.

It hurts, I cry. It does, she says and soothes

me with a smile. And does it ever stop?

When will I move in light of all the good

I write, and not be shot by everything

you write? When will my words stop pouring out

in streams, and start to feel precise? I plead.

Oh well, she chuckles and it stings, it stops

when you are dead, but dead don’t write, and rare

it is to see a dead man fire guns.