Who can that really be?
no one said they’d call at this witching hour
it’s drizzly and devilishly dark outside
I’m all alone working well into the night
trying hard to put some lines
into semblance of coherence
and a hint of poetical correctness
but now the low narrow path to the sacred valley
of inspiration has been faded by anxiety
every line is waxing so prosaic and insipid
like unseasoned mushrooms
stewed in hard borehole water

Come what may, I will not open that window
to see who desires my company, so desperately
they have to pound continually at the fragile glass pane
I’d rather blow out the candle, seek solace in darkness
give myself temporary invisibility
save for the tiny ember of the sandalwood-scented repellent
glowing like a laser beam, a red eye on this black giant
keeping the winged parasites in check, silencing them mid-song
they have been humming all the way to their blood bank

I think I am going to faint
if only I could use the machete.