Malaries

Grandma's drawers hold such secrets Neatly folded splashing colors silken satin spells, briefs of black lace string, & scents and brushes from around the world. How are you? I am fine... I am murder: Crow with a cataract, staring & hopped up on death, in the middle of your street. I can wait forever for a treat. From off of the telephone wires I will break my nuts and yours. On this hot overcrowded asphalt stink of August. When you wipe your brow. I am underneath that dirty yellow, soaking you up regardless of your aromatic profound stupidity. When I am not on black wing On red spray, or burnt guts. I wait in houses for them to return from a lovely night out on the town. Dancing, drinking. While they make love to eachother. I am a pair of eyes in the closet. Wearing their slinkiest outfit. Wet warm cloth filling my cracks. Soon, I will emerge, and introduce to not theirs, but your exhausted blissful cigarette fooled faces that I am the Word that pulls the blade clean on your fears. I am the next best thing to fucking. I am the loveliest lover ever, and you are all on my list. I am pure wicked murder with a purr and dry kiss hint of the future. Just without you there.