Bitter Instinct

Начало книги

Scrawled in careful longhand in a reddish ochre color across and down Anton Pierre's thin, bony back, an exquisite living poem ripples with his movement. And the movement speaks. It speaks the poem into existence as it crawls, glides, moving with his lithe body. At first, snakelike, the poem slithers with his groaning. Soon, however, it seems to assume an angelic flight with Anton's lilting gasp for breath.

It is a poem penned with a needle-pointed, flesh-cutting quill. The poem's ink, laced with the toxic concoction, runs into Anton's bloodstream, the poison doing its work. Anton Pierre believes both poem and poet inspired, and, in fact, he'd earlier jokingly called his killer the Lord Poet of Misspent Time. They had toasted to the name, and the poet thought it appropriate, replying, “Yes, Lord Poet Messenger of Misspent Time, I would add. That's what I'll call myself.” They shared a laugh then and they drank to each other's boldness, Anton's in baring his body, the poet in baring his soul.

Читать дальше →