Playing with a corpse, the man cries.
His tears run blood down his mask, steamed hot
and eveloped wrought, the man lays his toy down.
The man feared her, she taught him things.
'Sex kills you, women rape you, ' he whimpers.
He throws his creations of human flesh, his lamp
is breaking and his clothes rip.
He turns to her and asks, ' Mother, may I play with the children? '
But Mother has nothing to say, and nothing to say with.
'Ring around the Rosie' he sang, as the man gropes his suit.
His idle playthings are all rotted. He consumes them.
Fresh flesh is craved. The killing begins.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem