the executioner
Crows are breaking walnuts, all over my roof.
I bite into one and break my one good tooth.
And taking that as the proof, she asks,
“How do you like the taste of my truth.”
Everything seems to be ripping apart
As she purrs into my ear, “It’s only the start.”
She executes by the force of a will.
Without a will, she executes better still.
She’s writing a book called Playing tricks on the dead.
Trixie’s her name; she does tricks in a deathbed.
Trixie’s take home lesson has two points.
You don’t cut hair in a clip joint.
And always use cooking oil to anoint.
Death slips in the door
When life forgets what it’s here for.
The entrance to my house has been nailed shut.
The exit’s been booby trapped with ifs, ands and buts.
Angels can’t give me any more passes.
The Devil is there to make sure that it lasts.
My carpet’s been ripped out from wall to wall.
As cockroaches do the Australian crawl.
Everything’s spilling upside down.
As she admires the lines of her funeral gown.
Death slips in the door
When life forgets what it’s here for.
I’m drunk on misapprehension, feelin’ woozy.
It’s a hole in one for the intention of a certified floozy.
My ticket’s a threat to make sure that I go.
The executioner is wearing lipstick to the show.
Visiting the living dead makes her wrinkle her nose.
She prefers well dressed in bed wearing funeral clothes.
She fiddles with the dials of fate behind her hand
And makes time get late; I can hear the requiem band.
Her eyelids cloud the gesture of charity.
Her hands shroud the closure of parity.
All I ever wanted was to be left alone.
I never asked for the right to her throne.
Her foot’s on the hidden pedal of the wheel of fortune.
She brings you to the level where a whore reels you in.
I never wanted to dig for gold.
I only wanted to hear the greatest story ever told.
Death slips in the door
When life forgets what it’s here for.
Her fool’s gold has been packed on a camel.
She says she can ride it right through the eye of a needle.
And can jump start history with the wink of her eye
And deliver the goods with her open thigh.
Her face has got the executioner look
It’s covered with the black veil of a storybook.
I grasp it and tear it loose
Only to find myself looking at a hangman’s noose.
What’s really hard to understand
Is how she can hang you using only slight of hand.
When it’s another's death that is here to stay
Why is it my breath that she takes away?
Death slips in the door
When life forgets what it’s here for.
I never wanted to see all this stuff.
On the road to riches you see more than enough.
There’s dead bodies lying everywhere
Just to take away all your troubles and cares.
We’re all executioners on the road of desire.
It’s mostly a question of what’s fuel for your fire.
Some like Trixie take wood from your box.
Others get burned by staring into a paradox.
(And it don’t seem like I’ll ever
Get rid of them crows from my roof.
Or for that matter
The hard taste, hard taste of Trixi’s truth.)