A collection of poems. I can't write poetry, and these were an exercise in an example of that. The first poem is the story of legendary Doctor of Death, Jack Kevorkian. Thanatron was the name of his first "death machine". The second was the true story of a kid who almost died after his father killed his family. The last three poems I think can be figured out, and maybe they pick up the mood a bit? Right?

1. The Fundus Oculi and the Determination of Death now with 10% more Thanatron.
2. My elegy by Anthony Sukto
3. Nobody Home
4. Things I should not write about
5. Poes


1.

"The Fundus Oculi and the Determination of Death now with 10% more Thanatron"

Forty-six confirmed deaths.

All for the thirty dollars spent at garage sales and hardware stores,

a fraction of the cost of your failed film, 'Messiah'�.

A 1968 Volkswagen van, a rented park cabin, their homes,

an assistants' home,

even your own home.

Your university, county, state

governments can't stop you.

You advertise for suicide counseling,

at your real own suicide clinic.

You found a common cure

for Alzheimer's, multiple sclerosis, ALS, cancer,

and it's carbon monoxide.

Underneath the prosecutor's evidence,

all the photographs of eyes

of the dying,

are the conversation transcripts

of the dying.



Sherry: Yup, I do.

You: Put it in plain English.

Sherry: I want to die.



You: Well, Tom what is your wish?

Tom: I want to end this. I want to-

You: Take your time. Take your time.

Tom: I want'die.

Heidi: Die.

Sherry: Die.

Marjorie: Die.

Hugh: Die.



Never an unsatisfied customer.


2.

My elegy. By Anthony Sukto

'My daddy killed me with a knife and I'm gone.'�

"Can you please send the Army men or the ambulance?"

"My daddy killed me with a butcher knife."

"Because."

"I don't know what happened,

but something.

He grabbed knives.

I woke up.

My dad,

he was killing my mom

and then my, my, my dad told me to go

onto the other bed

and then he's like, 'You're next,'

and then he killed me.'�



"How did that happen if you are talking to me?"

'I'm still alive. I kind of survived."



You don't have to write this now,

you can go back.



You're alive.


3.

Nobody home

Mind the mind.

I have half the mind,

but don't mind me,

something's on my mind,

but it's not heavy enough,

because my mind is drifting away,

somewhere for dirty minds,

like mine, but mind the gap,

there's no cheating in mind games,

and have mind control

with a proper frame of mind,

like a mastermind,

but oh, nevermind.


3.

Things I should Not Write About

Pedophilia, the dirty crooked fingertips

on the soft flesh of a small girl, or boy

who's mother listens to a crooner's old

.45 on a record player chanting and moaning

because Elvis is dead, but don't say Elvis,

you can't say there is no God, if there is no

God, there would be the lecherous men

who were 'always quiet and kept to themselves'�,

staying on their private jets before a concert

and eating their dripping cheese, fried ham, bacon

sandwich, just sitting, waiting, watching,

not God, there's no God to watch, to watch

the men molested and disrobed as children, defiled

like white cotton sheets, or a porcelain bowl.


Menopause


Not God, Elvis is dead, but don't say it aloud

like a confession of a sin in the red lights

in the church of the holy creational mother of virgin


Breasts


malaria is a disease that is researched and is cured

unlike diseases that don't exist to talk about or write


about pedophilia is an incesting infecting reality

that exists, in the absenting presence of the death of


God is in the minds of those who believe in Elvis

Not in the hearts of the pedophilias, but of the three

holy trinity, which is real?





4.

Experience

the life under a clouded demented church

took my Poe

my ghouls, goblins, trick-or-treats

blood, fangs, oozing sores, full moons

severed limbs

experience buried alive.

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