suicide poem

Beware of these images.
In death, there is nothing tender.
Last night, as I dreamt of dying,
waves came in bearing photographs.
An army of stone statues;
they bind themselves with electrical cord,
looped and knotted in a suffocating chaos;

they are cut in half with a bandsaw,
two halves rolling this way and that;

they turn themselves inside out,
their guts coiling out like caviar,
settling in a neat bundle beside them.

They are the faces of hate.
The devil looks down on their severed heads, smiling,
their mouths contorted in an eternal last laugh.
Their eyes roll back like two glass marbles,
their faces a jumbled puzzle,
bloated and the color of ash,
in their eternal state,
still angry and pathetic.