Hi Everyone!
The Bone here. Long before I knew what a persona poem was, I came up with a...presence...whose name was Grittnore the Bombay Pedophile. I shortened his name to Roy DePape, which is the same, or similar, to a character in Stephen King's 'The Dark Half'. So, that's how old DePape is, but Grittnore is much older.
I've always been fascinated by monsters. I've interacted with plenty of them. Bullies that want to hurt you. You know the type. King's monsters were a welcome distraction from the real thing, so I guess I named him DePape as homage.
Anyway, I was writing these poems, and I want(ed) them to be more of a character study than a recounting of the crimes. I mean, how does a child-murdering pedophile sleep at night? Or (make love? have sex? Bone?) get romantic with their partner? That's so weird.
On my drive of lost poems, I found several about Ol' Roy. Here's one I decided to omit from something. I can't remember if it was a manuscript or what, but I erased some notes about how this piece wasn't good or to my liking. So, I thought I'd give it to you for free, on my blog!
Don't say I never gave you anything.
(you) Love,
The Bone Inside
Pressure
He smells rotten meat
at night when the air’s on
and he traces his wife’s earlobe
with his left hand.
He wants
to be filled with something
other than this tonight.
He pushes
the denim quilt down
and slides out of bed.
There are pills on the nightstand.
He dry-swallows two.
Head back
he sees, in shadows,
the slow rotation
of the ceiling fan.
Head forward
he can trace
the slats of the wooden floor
by the dim kitchen light.
It shines
for the sons who may want
something to drink in the night.
Under the bed
in a cardboard box
are brown hair locks.
He has handcuffs,
assorted license plates
and wood blocks
in the trunk
of his ’87 Buick Skylark.
