Tag Archives: predator

The Cut of his Jib

biceps

He meets a woman
who
fits
the general
image of his florid dreams.
Flexing his biceps he feels the sleeves
of his long-suffering shirt
squeeze. Somewhere between elbow
and armpit a punished seam
gives up the ghost.
Shoulders bulge, muscles
swell his chest, threatening
to burst his buttons.

He preens, his regiment of
all-the-better-to-eat-you-with teeth
standing neatly to attention.
I’m built
to protect myself, he says,
should someone come to shoot me dead,
I need no bullet-proof vest;
I’ll disarm them with a flicking blow.
I’ll take the life of anyone who tries
to cut me with a sword or knife.
You’ll be safe with me,
and I will show you all the ways I know –
all the sweet techniques that go –
to
please
a homecoming queen.

She surveys the stranger,
taking in
his toned build,
his suntanned skin,
his hair the hue of a fox’s
mane, every strand contrived to
look stylishly out of place, the ice-
blue eyes that gaze, the handsome
face, chiselled in such a way…
and
the cut
of his jib.

Get outa’ my way, she coldly cries,
killing him with her scimitar eyes.

©Jane Paterson Basil

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The Wolf

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Three bodies sat around a table;
a wolf disguised, as in a fable,
a bloodied victim, half chewed away,
and the predator’s next intended prey.

The bloodied victim had the audacity to survive. Bravely, she spoke to the intended prey, describing the tactics and weaknesses of the wolf. The wolf stammered excuses, but the woman in his sights was not a fool.

I was one of the three,
and, yesterday, I aquired a pile of knives.
Each one was etched with a
different
crime
against my sex
All the sins committed by you, the wolf, were represented.

I sharpened my knives with a fine whetstone.
Aggression and affection rubbed together, each clearly defined.
I had no love for you, only the desire to save a life.

Today I examine my prospective weaponry, silently interviewing every well-honed applicant for the post of accomplice to rough justice. Each stretch of steel sharply translates the rays of sun into a gleaming silver streak of lethal dreams.

I select the most stylish knife in my armory;
fashioned for filleting, its sleek blade
emerges, confident, from a welcoming wood handle,
elegantly narrowing
to a
pin
p
o
i
n
t
more threatening than Madonna’s famous bra.
Tenderly, I stroke it with my thumb.
I name it for you.

I picture a glistening film of crimson, the viscous drips weeping their shame at your lack of remorse.

I’ll hand you the knife, and wait
for the cutting slash, the stabbing thrust that will drive the spike through your flesh, into the unsleeping, penile heart of the matter.

I’ll watch your dispicable spirit simmer –
see you spit, but your spit will not reach.
You will have been hoisted by your own petard.

I’ll raise a victorious fist
for womens’ solidarity.

Finally,
I’ll drink (coffee) to the health of my new friend.
She drinks weak tea,
but with my tolerant nature
I view that as a minor misdemeanour.

The Daily Post #Spike

©Jane Paterson Basil

Tumbleweed

arachnid3.jpg

I see you;
your retrograde ego recalling lost glories,
eyes dimming each time you walk past the mirror,
as you blind your dumb soul with the chill of your heart.

I see you;
your shallow charms, your grasping arms
~ your stance aping that of a gentleman ~
as you think to fatten each perceived victim,
in a bid to fill your stagnant harem.

I see you;
thinking to win them with takeaway treats,
or tasteless roast dinners plucked from the freezer,
speedily heated and served with fool’s flourish,
and free cigarettes, and cans of strong lager,
and cheapest milk chocolate, and liquorice sweets,
for every sinner who flies in to visit
your vinegar pickled, jerry-built web.

To them, no angel or devil are you;
but a simple, wrinkled trick;
a lewd wallet, spewing cash on delivery.
They belong not to you, but to the night;
buying their prize beyond your sticky sight.

I see you;
your ill-concealed arachnid fangs,
grinning lips seeping thin syrup with bitter stink.
Your organ of male greed may stretch, but it can’t reach me.
I hunger neither for drug money,
nor shallow wallow in semen-stained bed.

And why me?
Did you think I would be a cheaper option;
a practical economy,

or did my steel celibacy offend?

Was it one, or both, of the above,
or were you toying with a dream of love?
Pray, entertain me, sick Prince;
did
you really think
 you were in  the running
for even a sliver of me?

I see you;
sad, pale fake of a man.
Beating hearts have no place in your cold domain.
Feebly, you play the sly spider king,
clumsily spitting your flimsy synthetic silk toward  me,
but I break it with a breath,
hissed between clenched teeth.

I see you;
tumbleweed briefly tangling at your feet,
then, freed by a mild puff of wind,
rolling away to safety.

©Jane Paterson Basil