He thought he would have had it,
if he had only been richer,
or poorer.
He thought he might get a
better girl and write legends.
If he had made money
from stock exchanges.
Got his life back from the
web and the net and
all those tangled tangles.
I could’ve killed him
a hundred times:
from highway overpasses
he could’ve leapt,
or been strung
up on any number of
neighbouring trees.
I could’ve strangled him
some nights
when he went on about
how it wasn’t fair
that some
new age writer had gotten a
new
contract and here he was, just
“taking up space in spiral margins.”
I almost threw him to a pack
of wolves one night
in shame,
but I knew I would only wake up
feeling like I had chewed him myself.
So I did what had to be done.
I buried him. He’s still there…
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