Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Crimes of passion

When specter froze itself in draping silks,

and hid itself in eggshell shades, it cracked

like Russian spies among opposing ilks,

and shook like leaves. When pleased, it took the slack,

now jagged curtain rod and shattered out

a window to the silent midnight pall.

He'd never laid so closely, wound about

a form so tightly or left scrambled scrawl

so lightly etched in fresh cadaver's wet

and stinking gut. His step's quick click and knife's

efficient melody made tears collect

postmortem. Humming octaves atop his wife's

new lover's blinded body, butchered, red,

record-light blinked 'til batteries ran dead.

No comments:

Post a Comment