Dried blood and detectives.

A Poem by Ash

A tribute to Roberto Bolaño. .

Circles of deception,
I saw the layouts.
Naked bodies outlined with chalk.
We stared at those blood stained rags,
As the dogs inhaled the red smudges like coke.

I lighted up a cigar and puffed.
Corridors were filled with timid screams,
of pain or is it happiness ?
Or just both.
Everyone wants the 'verdad'.
We give them ghosts of the truth,
And just then the cigar finished eating itself.

Some child who read way too much fiction once asked me,
"Are you a detective ?"
"Maybe" I said.
Maybe one of old Bolaño's savage detectives,
Or maybe one of those writers.
Jesters who made fictions into labyrinths of chaos.