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