Poems / poetry / verse

Batman

I murdered Batman in my workshop
strung him up by the feet and cut his throat
the blood was thick and dark, it stank
and when I cut him down blood dripped
onto my hand from the chord that had bound him

I wrapped him in black bin liners
two, three layers,
but his pointed ears kept coming through the plastic
and I could feel his bony joints inside as I dragged him to the door
blood smeared in a trail accross the floor

the guilt claws at my insides
I think of all the people who will miss him
he probably has family, the whole orphan bit
was just a back story for the films
his poor parents
his sister
this man I don't even know is the most precious thing in the world to them
I will never know the pain I have caused

I spent a long time trying to decide
after I had dumped his body, walked away,
if life would be bearable, knowing what I had done.
I have thought very hard about turning myself in.

Every night I dream I am running down a coridoor
in an empty municipal building
to scrub my hands in a huge washroom of white tiles
where blood gushes from the taps