your heart my dagger
the weapons of our anger drive their own ends
too deep for returning
red is the colour of moment
colour of the moment
a mist-haze in air and mind
what is now is not
words struck-through pencil lines erased
simplicity in erasure
I don’t mince my words
I swear blind in my murderous language
this machine kills
© BH, 2025
This arose out of a writing prompt based on ‘killing someone is easy but hiding the body, now that’s usually the hard part…’ drawn from Richard Osman’s ‘Thursday Murder Club’. I wrote a macabre poem as a result but, later, reinvented it as a figurative murder of fascist(s). God (should He choose to exist) knows we have a whole lot of those these days.
As is my current practice, I’ve illustrated this in three parts - 1 - 2 - 3.
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