The Plot is the Mechanism for my Alibi

Poem – Monday, June 1st, 2020

lighted in the bathroom’s quality, half-lit conjecture in the porcelain space,

Deflect

Defeat

The money is on the night stand next to the gun.

My bodies tolds. Tolds.

Told.

I know what she’s thinking, she’s gonna break for the door and cable in the muscle.

The muscle.

The visceral fizz of the sinews performed in the passion of the play’s broken dream,

‘I will deus ex machina your heart into the light’s fluff, the after effect

Of the benign dream become soured and drowned in its own fizzuring pot.’

The souring pot.

I will be the light in the bathroom stall where you fell in half, metaphorically, but, nearly by design,

Into the ‘please give me end’ mode.

As the body begs to be rid of the poison in its coils, but yet,

No escape for the gathering vapors.

My bodies tolds. Tolds.

Don’t tell me about the maths, she bolted, left for the door, and the cell cut itself off at the point, so to speak.

You shot?
I denied the accusation before it ever entered your heart.

The plot is the mechanism for my alibi, so beg not the answer your question is not designed to produce.
I walked.
The sun shone.
The birds melted into the atmosphere, once again, of the possible, escaped

From the snag of the exchange.

‘There’s no beauty in death, but no joy in revenge.’

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