sickly purplish fleshy lips 
pleading and heavy
a nasally whine drowned out
by florescent buzzing and gunshot wounds

 there's an itch:
a dead twin living in that darkened spot
stamping out nightmares of the worst kind
a hardening shrieking excitement
pearl-yellow, shattering teeth in ecstacy
at the winning end of blu gun-metal

there's an itch
stapled down and locked away
saved for tomorrow, and tomorrow again
with hopes that i will be too old to reach
too old to sate that friendly ghoul
who seeks the world in martial rule

'the end is coming
they polish their boots
and i'll polish mine.'