Murder at the Convention
The guest of honour blew up on the stage
quite silently. Emerald flames that smelled
of parsley burst. A centaur’s sex call belled
over the intercom. A sudden rage
caused bloodshed in the artroom. Canvas tore
and sculptures crumbled. It was hell in there.
The cosplay elf with her vermilion hair
burst from her corset.Embers all aglow
still won the Clarke and Nebula.The vote
based less on sympathy than on our fear
that he’d reach out though ash, through death could tear
and take each con attender by the throat
and each of us would choke.grow pale and fall.
Convention murder happens to us all.