Sadness is something you can kill with your hands

Sadness is something you can kill with your hands.
Sadness is something you can lick when you're old.
You can maul it like it's a chicken, with a hatchet,
you can lick the twitching stump as if it were
a beloved sexual organ.
And watch sadness run around the yard brainless,
spurting blood, until it's just a stupid word
among other emptinesses.
You're getting ready to drink a beer.
You're preparing to murder your sadness.
You're about to throw the dead bird at the jukebox
and watch it slide down the songs.
It's finally stopped running around the yard.
And the light behind it is a chalkboard now.
Sadness is something you can kill without love.