The Blood on the floor at my desk is not mine
Mrs Weertunga died of a stroke. There was not too much pain.
Half paralysed, she lingered for weeks, then gone.
Nathan was shot through the head at point blank range.
It had to be. Dramatic tension will not rise on its own.
In a pit in the northern desert I buried several hundred refugees.
We shot them first, pushed the bodies in by tractor. It was simpler.
The art lady named Trisha was found bashed in the gallery,
A cricket bat the bloody weapon. But in reality, it was me.
Yankee now is dead, no longer required,
He should never have found himself another story, or retired.
The teenager who hanged himself. I feel sorry for his mother,
although we never met. Just as well perhaps.
Spanner, the mechanic, was eaten by a crocodile.
Pablo the poet was taken by old age.
A kayaker went missing, no trace. And so the list goes on,
It's carnage at the writing desk
Hemmingway was right,
Writing is so easy, if you sit at the desk
and spill blood.