They are coming to take you away, aha.

I hate corners know he will be standing there
A Parisian Apache, one leg resting on a wall
Of a closed-down factory.
Smoking Gitane a cigarette.
Sharpening his stiletto, cleaning his fingernails.
Or a farmer, stony ground fed up, takes his *****
and cut my throat,
A geyser of blood that will fertilize the floor
it could also happen walking home after an evening
at the pub, falling face down in a puddle where yellow welly floats.
It could be so banal, as falling when going to the loo
with a broken nose, no one hears the muffled screams
dying 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 pale face.