|The Murderess, The Murdered: A Tale of A Haunt
Author: Dee Dub PM
Angry tonight, I guess. Men and women. No, mostly women. From all eras. Living and dead. Blaming each other. Naturally.Rated: Fiction T - English - Words: 185 - Published: 08-30-05 - id: 1997376
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Leggy and impenetrable,
the lissome fiend glides out of me,
like a misdirected bomb,
with its automatic propriety.
irrefutable and predictable,
do you ask nothing of me?
petty, it is religion.
Like human interference,
vengeful and rigid
a stanched virgin, festering, her
disdain of men, in
a round bowel, an iron cauldron.
as they sleep, I wait under window,
Her oils sizzle
it slips out,
lacy and transparent,
a mental ointment
as I keep her content, to find that I, I
did her in.
with her box of tin.
Her black wit, but
like her starched, burgundy dress,
Are you proud, dear, white one,
Halloween children, draped in linen?
Poison apothecary, why I fear death,
my woman, the highwayman.
I sleep in mockery,
all grin, my countenance.
I sleep in health, freely.
cavernous red on your chest,
never baring your ankles
to social unrest.