Beat Red

I’d like to write poems beat red. Like the color of my face when white spit foams the lips. I’d like an utterly violent embrace. No pretense, nothing dishonest about this undoctored rage. Hold nothing back, let it all go, tear off clothes, and punch the walls. I’d like my poems to be suicidal. Willing to jump off the Golden Gate, overdose on sleeping pills, a Black and Decker drill to the skull. At least then I will have killed for complete love of the poem.