If death comes earlier than expected,
you’re sure you could easily handle it.
You think this would free yourself from burden,
you reckon extinction is the new thing.
It will come soon enough so please don’t beg
for it to come this way as relieving as it seems.

Her breasts prick the sight of the saints,
her breath is stale, it smells rot and decay,
her legs are hairier than a palm-tree trunk,
the tool she carries around with her slices
heads, limbs, torsos, anything goes.
Her unforeseeable eyes pierce through the dark.

She does see you quiver in your corner,
she laughs, she trembles with ecstasy,
she leaves the place softly, she leaves
you quizzical. She leaves permanent
stains behind, tumours in fat brains,
her restless rumours never wane.