In the
garage I whet my knife
For the
feast of blood it will drink.
Then I rinse
my face in the kitchen sink
And prepare
to snuff a random life.
I walk the streets
seeking strife,
And search
for a crippled weak link.
The sun goes
down on the collective stink
Of humanity wearing
the face of my wife.
The old man
with the slight limp,
The young
girl with the mini-skirt . . .
Which one
will be the lucky simp
To take the
blade between the breast
And shudder
like a cardiac arrest
While I
clean my knife on a bloody t-shirt?
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