i have been guileful in all these crimes
and all those stealthy midnight burglaries.
i am one of those black-cat, bad-luck masterminds
and i have planted thirteen weeds around your wife
and they will grow, and they will tangle her,
strangle her, and poison and stings will mangle her.

but that would be just like you with us.
as one, yes, we killed him. in this way,
i have killed a lot of people, stolen a fortune
of jewellery, held a lot of children against the fence.

but that would be less than you to us.
isolation is what you do best. i thought of you
as a widower(black-eyed)even before i wrote
this poem and reviled your wife. tonight
i will steal her will, and you will have nothing
and i will have two very useful things.

you smash my window, i steal your job.
these cunning intentions as, on your tarmac
drive, i scrawled the star of david and crept
like the malignant smell of charred underwear
through your cobweb country. box me up.

hate me for doing your job, and battering
the vampires in your haunted house of fun.
i was the singular rotting criminal. crucify me back.

box me up and plant me like manure
beneath those thirteen weeds, and look
at frau and i fraternize. gas us up, zyklon b,
your friends and enemies. look at how lonely you are.