Thursday, 4 May 2017
poetry 2017 / 092
in the kitchen with the dagger.
Let's face it,
it would save so much time
except in my scenario Miss Scarlett
is not the killer but the victim,
and her name isn't Scarlett, is it?
You know who it is,
and I'd slip the blade horizontally
through your left armpit
until it pierced your cold, black heart
and even then you'd go on living,
your Facebook page a shrine
still posting horoscopes from the grave
along with Bejewelled requests
and chain memes:
'Ten places you loved and one you hated,'
and it still wouldn't include Hell
though no doubt you'd be running the place in weeks,
and being passive aggressive towards Satan
and yes, Julie, I do mean you.