Psychopaths Use Doorbells

The salt particles digging into her skin,
A form of self preservation,
Burying her breathing corpse,
Do you realise you will not
Be able to reach your head?

Gate crash a costume party,
Put on a white sheet,
Laugh at the unfashionable monsters,
Fear yourself,
That ghost never died,
It is still living,
In the paranormal circus,
Within your mind,
Right under the chandelier,

The puppet master,
Controls her willing slaves,
With imaginary strings,
Good doers are punished,
Made to take a stroll,
Through the graveyard,
Where their shoes are buried,

Mark your name,
With white chalk,
On the black granite,
At the house, where they have,
The expensive paintings hanging from the golden walls,
You hope they discover,
The limbs in the bin liner,
You do not remember who you killed,
Maybe it was the stallion,

Doesn’t encounter,
Red lights,
But every so often,
There is a hit and run,
Always on the front page,
With the name of the editor stamped,
Right under the burning pieces of metal,

X- Ray my mind,
With a magnifying glass,
Maybe you could tell me,
Why the colours have dulled,
And when exactly the wasps escaped,
You miss them.