written by: Christian Ward
A murderer’s emporium: Freezers
full of Sweeney Todd’s razors.
Vacuum-packed sprats to make alphas choke.
Fresh lugworms to fatten connoisseurs.
Who can forget the Venetian carnival
of feathery lures? Glow in the dark
fake squid? Sometimes I see them lighting
my way as I stumble through countless corridors.
Lines are cast. Victims picked. Their guts
stuffed with unwilling gifts. Every eye
slipping back to milk-white, another judgement.
My legs spasm with their movements, collapsing from final gasps.
At night, I run a finger around my mouth to feel
for the outline of hooks and rivulets of blood
more connected to the sea spray and sound
of birds bringing tomorrow on their wings.
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