Trophies - poem

Hey.

Here's a new poem.  Donors to my new Patreon account got to see it a week ago. I'll explain tomorrow more about the Patreon situation, and how it's a more updated, more communal version of ODES AND NONSENSE.

Used to find it 

Garish, 

Shivering myself warm in some dusty winter lodge, 

Gazing upon a prostrate 

Bear skin rug. 

Glass eyes wide and blinkless, shining glimpses of the crackling fireplace. 

Seemed wasteful. 

Beyond the logistics of recreational murder. 

Creating and hunting a monster Is a rich person’s game. 

One needs professionals. 

The most patient, effective 

Tools to tear out flesh. 

One must isolate that still-beating 

Note of empathy, muffle it into a cold, tuneless void. 

One must suffer to make the silent, shockwave sounds of greater suffering. 

Some years ago, Through savings and death and inheritance, 

Through the compound interest of dissatisfaction, I found my own quarry. 

Chose my hunting party. 

Slouched uneasily in the orthodontics chair. 

And, with a minimal gloss of anesthetic, 

Had a front row seat to the death of that beast. 

His gnarled and yellowed fangs, wrestled brutely 

From their bleeding stumps. And yes, 

Though it was and remains 

More waking terror-torture than  I’ve ever known 

I demanded those nine teeth be surrendered to me. 

In a paper envelope, creased with a thin stamp of blood. 

But what marks me apart from other hunters is this: 

They’re not displayed. 

No pride or pompous pleasure fills 

A room with this torment, this work. 

They’re tossed in an unused closet, along with 

Old, handwritten love letters and mementos 

From mentors long dead from cancer.