The Nihilist - Four: Don'T Look Now

A bad moon on the rise, Grinning like sour cheese, Drips a rivulet of blood, A groovy facial scar; On the canal rancid surface, Blacker than a witches’ bowel, It smiles back at itself, Death reflected from afar. Don’t look now, for Something wicked comes, Trailing rotten funeral wreaths, Along the catacomb way; And the bad moon surveys The handiwork of conscience, Turns the plastic red and slick, Predicting venous spray.