Shank the turtle, shoot the hare,
leave a lover’s paper trail –
axe the ballast, slash the mast,
frame a family member.

I could suck the soul out of a zombie,
stake a stick in a sleeping man’s chest cavity:
you’re factually insane if you actually think
I’m like those other parts-of-people processors.

Listen: gold shower, pyrite mudslide,
what have you, whatever. What matters
is the clean-up, the importance of erasure,
containing chance by eradicating variables.

Nowhere left, with so much to hide –

Your spliced twin,

Youpiter

PS:

I hid the murder weapon in your lunchbox
and have already swapped my face out:
I sing like a warbler, but march like a soldier.