When the Nihilist Help-line closed
he reverted to his old ways.
On sunny mornings
he would stroll down Piccadilly carrying roses.
With gallant gestures
he would bestow blooms upon the beautiful.
I knew immediately
he was going to offer me a rose.
Above the piercing eyes
his thick black hair was untidy.
As I took it he smiled.
Something inside me said - "Why not?"
With slow hands
he lingers over the firm nipples and moist pelt.
"I know just what you’re thinking"
they say with an arch smile.
In his mind’s eye
he rehearses the acts of dismemberment.