There’s a dry voice that chokes;
a sandy tongue that grates dust-vowels over chipped-blue lips,
explosive puffs that cause the heart to race,
from somewhere behind the cherry wood bookcase.

Let the flames do the talking – keep that fire stoked.
Hold your breath and pray he won’t come stalking,
for his teeth are geared with gold-sneer,
and they rip through bone to the beat of tortured soul-fear.

Never make eye-cont—

In his left hand a discarded, crumpled page – the letters broken and twisted,
his name rearranged to spell out the victim’s, yours;
the author who thought it ‘wise’ to exclude him from the last ‘bestseller’ –
King’s had a run-in, and so, maybe, has Heller.

act! Your feet are frozen to t—

An utterance of disapproval as he drags himself across the floor planks,
a crust of dust where his nostrils should be flaring,
a gob of phlegm on the chin as he turns
and slaps himself on a limp leg that drags behind like a heavy shadow.

he spotted you! Grab—

The harsh noise of nails scraping over the floor’s drawing closer,
as is the groaning of painful sighs with each heave –
splinters in open sores on a right hand that’s swollen green,
yet strong enough to clutch tight

*the letter opener!

Only step on light-coloured paving slabs;
there are gaping voids under the darker ones
filled with a twisted-mustard fog made up of cut-off hands, heads, and genitals
that *****, **** and squirt foul-smelling, luminous goo all over you
as you go down, down, down –
your screams will fall on deaf ears, and your voice will drown you;
your voice will be your downfall.

Never sleep with a gun under your pillow;
someone you love might annoy you in the slightest – and vice versa –
nightmares are so much more frightening when they become reality.
You will cry, cry, cry
(your cries won’t be heard if you swallow a bullet first, of course),
and cleaning the corners, where the Witness Spiders sneer, is a *****.

Never sleep with a book under your pillow;
you might wake up thinking Wow, what a beautiful day,
not knowing that you’ve been ****** into one of the author’s stories –
leaked from his pen, though not inked;
the fleeting thought of a madman
who dreams about writing a bestseller on family murders.
You will scrub, scrub, scrub.

Avoid reading silly poetry about superstitions;
the words might be those of a madman who writes with a cheap pen,
the ink spilled all over the page on purpose.

The winded willow wailed,
and the wild flowers hung on every sigh of the tree’s weathered leaves.
The shed door yawned each time he raised the axe;
blade-on-bark gave him a fractional sense of ‘being there’,
and a wry smile — thin, like dawn’s frost-moustache on the Chevy’s windshield —
shaped his lips into worn wiper blades,
which stifled the sound of his teeth chipping away at winter’s breath.

A flutter of wings,
and a flurry of feathers
when the hush of a kimono
– broken-blossomed and torn at the seams –
drag over and **** up morning dew’s silver secrets,
only to be picked up by Sun’s golden fingers,
and woven into fabrications
glittering in the reflection
of a hand fan blade.

They come for her in red and blue
ambulance lights disco dancing fragmented beats,
purple intent drumming against flaking graffiti art on the garage door;
aerosol skeletal rose garden shadows cower
under twist-rust razor wire
fencing
in the flowerbed graveyard strewn with dogs’ delights—
there is neither bark nor howl,
those sounds echo deep within the basement walls;
lumps of meat a’thudder,
twisted growls
for the boy, Timothy,
which both Rottweilers had been fond of as well.
Until the very end.

Neighbourhood eyes scowl,
wide-eyed middle-aged pyjama-children
fresh from midnight escapades;
arms folded tight,
everyone glares at her night-stained blood dress,
and the dogs’ heads held high above her pretty head,
revenge-trophies served lukewarm
on a school night against the backdrop of suburbia
crying
under ambulance sirens’
apocalyptic announcement regarding Amy:
had she not answered that phone call and left little Timmy unattended,
she might still have been able to hold him in her arms.
Until the very end.

A can o' beans on a red suitcase,
Christ,
it must be Judgement Day;
even the sky feels empty,
even the shadows seem robbed of their coolness,
so I leave'em there,
the empti tyn and the ruid sedcase baking in the ympty ske
and I crush them *******' dark lenses under my boots,
Lord,
and I walk on down that dusty-blue road.

Outside’s dressed up in 3am fishnets;
shooting star suspenders
(woven from strands of God’s silver *****)
crisscross cobwebs over pre-dawn’s mouth,
ready to go down,
trap,
and **** the joy right out of youth.

Yawn.

Stretch.

Wait.