Dr. Lecter's Tale...

Streets lined with puddles of standing rain
Speeding along through the night
Headlights illuminating the gathering vultures
In the middle of monsoon
There sits the Doctor
His feast ready to be devoured
And yet, before the cannibalism
Comes the necrophilia
He kisses the corpse
Becomes a statistic in her book
Number 22, and possibly the last...
He can feel the anguish on her contorted face
He can yet smell the molten gold on her breath
She won't breathe no more...
Dead, Dead, Dead...
The hungry Doctor
Bites into the soft flesh
Devours her at speed...

And then the poison in her veins begins to creep over him...
He clutches at his throat,
Falls back
Dead, Dead, Dead...
The vultures swoop down
The moon is eclipsed...
R.I.P Dr. Hannibal Lecter...

I drive on into the night,
Home, home again...

The Exhaust Tale

Strange nights, these
Spent in wait
Jitters that travel up and down the spine
The phobia of a dark room
Staring up at the ceiling
A vast expanse of movie screen
The smoke from the projector
Flashing images in grayscale
The cool breeze touching the surface
Fever
The enterprises of great pith and moment
Where the silhouette raises the blade
And spurts Rosso Corsa
Onto the sheets
The eternal wait for the war to end
When slings and arrows
Would cease to matter
The silhouette dares to dream
And yet the flowing red snaps him back to reality
Some say he has no mind, no soul
And that the last time he breathed
Was in King Arthur’s time
Waiting to exhale
Waiting for goodness to embrace him
The goodness of carbon monoxide
To engulf him, envelop him
Global warming.