Friday, November 09, 2007

Imminent Dread

Not, finally, the teeth.

Instead Mrs. McGuckian in her torn house coat

And loose arms revealing an elderly breast

Which tears on the broken window as she comes

Finally inside. We have been waiting

In the audience of smiles for evil to shed

The banality of its uniform, to bow

Politely as the Maitre d of the gas chamber.

For evil is as a polite as bumpkin in a classy restaurant

Smilingly observing the quality of each new dish

Of horrors, some snails, some brains, some ascensions

He, and I mean you, could never otherwise submit to.

Thus the smell of bodies on old clothes

Is more frightening than the actual taste of it, squishing

Over the lips into a stomach-less void of hunger

Instinct pearled around our necks

Like a noose of delicate acquiescence.

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