Five Ways to Murder Your Mentor
I just killed him for the second time, today.
I murdered him tomorrow, then rewrote my poem.
But today he rejected it, again.
’Weak metaphor, end rhyme with no meter. Cliché!’
So now I have to start again.
I scribble angry words and with a fist
of crumpled paper, dial my destination:
yesterday. Evening, perhaps?
He may be more generous after dinner;
less critical, his faculties softened by wine.
Tomorrow I strangled him, screaming ’Cliché?’
into his face as I pushed my thumbs into his throat.
Today, I silently slashed his carotid with a kitchen knife,
showered in his blood, then had to shower
before leaving. Any evidence travels back.
I have left my perfect crimes in the future.
(What was it he said about my tenses?)
As for yesterday …
I dash off a fresh draft. No time for this!
I need to choose my next implement. A screwdriver,
perhaps? Nice small hole, much less blood spatter.
I arrive at the appointed hour. He gives his verdict:
’Repetitive navel gazing. Needs a narrative arc.’
My hand arcs upwards, his eyes roll back,
the tool’s shaft pinning his spiteful tongue
like a dead butterfly.
OK, let’s try the day before yesterday.
Tuesday. He had a book signing.
Maybe he’ll be nicer in public,
with witnesses. ’Oh, shut up!’ I yell at the panicking onlookers,
clutching their (suddenly more valuable) signed copies.
Don’t they understand? It takes a long time
to beat a man to death with his own hardback novel.
Right, Monday! I tear the flyleaf out of the murder weapon
and hover his expensive signing pen over the blank page.
Inspiration strikes as the blue lights flash across the walls,
but I am gone before the tazer strikes.
He fingers the torn page curiously before he reads.
’Hmm, you have a good core idea. With a second draft,
this will be stronger.’ I smile. He’s right, of course.
I knew I could trust his judgement.
’But it’s too long and very repetitive. The same idea
worked over and over and over, again …’
I choose my next implement.