CONSCIENCE IS DEAD

I wrote the following poem soon after that 'phase', it is one of a few of my early poems that I actually remember (as I destroyed all of them one day during a moment of rage).

Conscience is dead
And it’s buried in the back yard
Right over there

under the camellias

Conscience is dead
And I’m its killer
I couldn’t stand it any more
Playing its games of insane

Conscience is dead
I’ve severed its nerves
I’ve scratched out its eyes
Rendered it senseless

Conscience is dead
And of me, it’s made a murderer
Conscience is dead
And it’s buried in the back yard