some days i feel like i am at the front of a murderous conga line

like the person right behind me has knife poised at my throat

a series of dangerous intent follows

poisoned needles

syringes filled with air

machetes, machine guns and other phallic shaped implements of my unwitting demise

not to say i never feel like the tail end of said conga line

malicious glee lighting my eyes

the sound of whetstone on blade

creeping ever closer to the front

when i reach the front i find it is my own back i am plotting against

the stack of bodies we happily dance around are mirror images of my own

entrails looping lazily about the spiked two by four

ice pick in brain stem

normal, healthy, old fashioned fun

so sharpen the pitchforks as the tribal drums starting beating

torches are so passé

whips and chains and bricks for bashing

conga line forms here