Hedonism is the dog, nailed to the ceiling, he says, so it can't bark.
Hedonism is the head, severed, un-breathing, in the room, he says, in the dark
The maid's shriek, he says. It is the gurgle. The thump.
The butler's used-to-be arm, and the leg, which is now a stump.
The eyes, he says, peeled and so more hideous than his.
Hedonism, says Teatime; hedonism just is.
.
Hedonism is the crack, the bone-broken, lesson-learnt whack, she says, of the terror in the night.
Hedonism is the cupboard; open-doored, clothes strewn, loosed of all fright
Because the fright has run away. From her.
Hedonism is the tentacled, fanged, hungry monster who prefers
To plead than to fight back or to retaliate.
Hedonism, thinks Susan, are the words 'you're too late'
.
Hedonism, as their eyes meet across a metal stick.
Hedonism, as one blurs to a flicker and the other scoffs, 'you call that quick?'
Hedonism is the run. The chase.
Hedonism. Who'll die first. A lover's/hater's race.
The face met across a metal implement.
The bringer and the granddaughter of death, and death's instrument.
.
A/N. Too dark?