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Four car-jackings in three weeks in my suburb;
god sends helicopters and I fall asleep with heat-visions,
nestled in the hum of their rotors; I sleep quite well
but it means I’m fantasizing almost constantly
of murdering three teenagers with my keys,
(sometimes the kids are in the car, sometimes they aren’t)
of springing up after they drag me from the car,
of hurling one into a passing truck and turning
on the rest: look at my smile, I’m delighted:
i will kill you i will tear you limb from fucking limb i will
make collanders of your rib cages.
And I am, like my suburb, kind of nice;
I like to think my thoughts would shock the ones who know me best (once,
when we tried to describe each other in one word,
I got obliging and concerned);
but perhaps it’s closer to the surface than I think.
Even though I know, if I was car-jacked, I’d burst into tears.
You’d bring the kids to visit me in hospital and even then
I’d probably fail to be brave for them
it was so so horrible I was so scared, they hurt me…
boys, the world’s a terrifying and awful place.
The pride I feel imagining myself a killer is quite real.
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