Heh heh! Now that you've had a nice dinner and heard some tales, it's time to settle in and relax with some Perverted Poetry! In the future I will use this column to display your letters, comments, etc., but since I don't have any yet, my stupid editor Huiskens wants me to print some poetry he's written! I was about to gag, but then I read it and realized it is delightfully dark and perfect for my first column. So let's start off with a simple haiku he's written...
					Slowly groping through The moist earth, the decayed hand Fights its way upwards
					Not too bad for a moron, eh? I guess if you put a thousand monkeys in a room with typewriters... or something like that, anyway. Well, I was surprised when, in addition to that little musing, he also handed me this other thing he's written. It's a bit more ambitious, and uses some words I wouldn't have thought he would know! It's called "Meat Cleaver Man..."
					The girl walked down the alley; the man crept up behind. He leapt upon her shouting, his bloody cleaver aligned. He raised his arm above his head, then let the cleaver fall. He struck her with it again and again to the horror of us all. He said, "My name's Meat Cleaver Man, you'd better step aside. Run, flee, get to your homes; find a place to hide. For, if I catch you, I will kill you, run before you're dead. Flee before this cleaver finds a place inside your head." Then he took a step back to the bloodied girl nearby. She moved, he kicked her, screaming to her, "Die! Why won't you die?" He raised the cleaver once again, but then he heard a shot. He felt the bullet burning in and fell upon the lot. "My god!" screamed the bloodied girl, rising to her feet. "We're only actors in a film! You've killed him in the street!" The cop looked shocked, the crowd looked stunned, the girl only cried. The director "Cut," then he yelled "Print," and Meat Cleaver Man died.
					(Sniff) Quite a poignant tale of woe, eh readers? Personally, I was rootin' for the guy with the cleaver. Anyway, that's it for now. Send me your own perveted poetry, as well as your thoughts on this first issue, or anything else you want to blather about. Nothing I like more on a cold, windy night in the abbey than to listen to the wind howl and read your malignant missives. Send mail to: zoom@zoomgraphics.com. Keep your carcasses cold, and I'll see you next time!

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