The Eighth Book


If you were not to be its victim, this book and body
Would amuse you with its arrogance. It would make you laugh.

Because you were not it’s victim, you would feel no pain of

This book starts well enough
All is clear and positive.
You feel confident.
You rise to meet the bait which is fresh and amusing,
Telling you that you are fresh and amusing too
It seduces by being a mirror to all your vanities.
You never thought you could be such an intelligent foil
To such intelligence.

No wonder you are impressed.
The straight forwardness of its characters is a smart device.

This is a well- washed body of a book.
It sits upright on its table
Which is your unsuspecting lap.
It presses close to your chest which hides
An unsuspecting heart.

And then just when its promises need to be fulfilled
Or else the suspense would grow wearisome
And over extended-- you smell a rat,
An elephant of a rat, a rat like an
Elephant that is both on fire and drowning.
Too late. Too late to retreat.
Your heart is open. The book has got you.
Your body is wide open. This rat of book has invaded your privacy,
Worried its feelings into your entrails by every private

You bent and flush at the blow
With the greatest embarrassment
And try to straighten up, thinking still
"How could I be so easily deceived?"

Slam the book shut.
Too late.
It has its dirty deceiving foot in your mouth.
Its gnawing has gripped you.
You will be guilty pregnant with its calling- card,
Its now wordless child progeny.