Arsenic Laced Lunch


When you point your finger at The Rabbit

with his finger on the trigger,

(metaphorically speaking)

(though is that any better?)

watch out for the decoy:

the bottle of Shiraz,

leaking out like plasma –

soaking Balkan grass.


Poor Dock. Poor old fella

with burning rosé cheeks

against a creased linen collar:

struggling with corn bread,

mustard, cheese and peaches.


Help him! Help him clean it up.


Dock and The Rabbit: old and laconic.

Sitting back and basking.

Cheerful reminiscing.

Playing chess and laughing.


But your voice cuts through the shit.

This is what you did, guys. This is what you did.


And suddenly I’m listening:

ears pricking up,

picking up what they did and definitely did not.


Hang on. You did what Dock?


The Rabbit, soft and by his side,

snuffles in his furry skin:

imprinted  on The Rabbit’s eyes

– the disconnect of sin.


Hey Hehir,

go for the jugular,

eviscerate their lies

but watch out for the hemlock and the aconite,

watch for the almond: the scented cyanide

and when you  go to sleep tonight,

don’t turn out the light.

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