They are coming to take you away

I dislike corners I know he will be standing there
A real Parisian apache one leg resting on a wall of a closed down factory
he is sharpening his stiletto and cleaning his fingernails
Or a farmer after digging stony ground has had enough cuts my throat
With his *****, a spray of blood and the land will be fertile again
I could also walk home after an evening in the pub fall face down in
a rain puddle where a yellow welly floats
it could be so banal falling in the night when going to the loo
a broken nose and no one can hear my muffled screams dying and  
and not saying anything divine.
I have to buy a coffin it must be wide sleep in it every night wake
up in the morning dead with sunlight on my face.