The author has been murdered.
Time of death:
8:07 p.m. A moonlit
public autopsy--
The crowd sliced his chest and
reached deep, scooping handfuls of
glistening goo, reds and pinks
twinkling in the starlight.
They slashed off the author’s
inky and calloused hands and
they pulled out his
tortuous tongue
as devoted offerings
for Saint Barthes.
It's only a peccadillo,
poisoning the author and
reclaiming their fine
phrases the writer stole long
ago. Then they ripped Barthes
apart limb by limb:
if the birth of the reader
killed the author
the death of the reader
killed God.
