A spider may be considered to be more disturbing by some
but your eyes betray the coldness of a killer
as they scan the room and your head barely pivots
upon the neck, no twitching of muscle visible
as the glare of insanity relaxes briefly
sensing no immediate threat to the game.
I see across the room and I watch with morbid
fascination and discern no sweat line even in the mouldering heat
and realise that inside of you, it must be awash, the agitation
of the Charles Manson like persona, the matted hair
and wolf like expression as the one syllable rhetoric
slide down inside, corroding like battery acid.
The stare fixates and I feel afraid, there is no redemption
in those eyes at all, just the realisation that the Manson like
quality that ripples across the room as the music pulsates
is in a different beat to your heart, your synaptic misfires
hurtle around in that murky drain
with only cold logic supporting it, that you are right
and everybody else should bow to your God like whim.
I feel fear in your company, even across the room,
genuine terror as the signals of your lack of movement,
your eyes like a lighthouse lamp but with no thousand
watt bulb in its heart, searching for prey, to brutalise
and sink your vampire like lust into,
you are terror incarnate and we should be concerned.
Ian D. Hall 2015