by Jonathan Vos Post (sonnet on the Mystery Writers of America motto "Crime doesn't pay... enough")
I get out of bed and cut my throat (disposable razor), then tie the noose (my paisley tie). Who was it who wrote "publish or perish"? What's the use?
The morning's cold; I put on my coat and electrocute (the overhead light). I drink the brew with no antidote (instant coffee) and try to write.
The mail arrives, dashing all my hopes with editors' words (deadly, polite) in self-addressed stamped envelopes: "Your stories are good, but for us: not right."
I'll burn down my house, the hell with their quips, starting with my rejection slips!
1120-1150 19 Nov 88

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