They Are Coming For You

They are coming to take you away, aha. I hate corners know he will be standing there A Parisian Apache, one leg resting on a wall Of a closed-down factory. Smoking Gitane a cigarette. Sharpening his stiletto, cleaning his fingernails. Or a farmer, stony ground fed up, takes his spade and cut my throat, A geyser of blood that will fertilize the floor it could also happen walking home after an evening at the pub, falling face down in a puddle where yellow welly floats. It could be so banal, as falling when going to the loo with a broken nose, no one hears the muffled screams dying and not saying anything divine. I have to buy a coffin it must be wide, sleep in it every night wake up in the morning dead, with sunlight on my pale face.