The Murders in Florence

The hills are my hunting ground.



I am out there, a fox among the trees,


So stealthy you never see me approach,


Never hear me breathing.


You look for my face?


It is every face you pass in the street.


Only those in the know have power;

The keepers of secrets,

The dealers and doers.

Whatever is visible and obvious

Cannot be the truth.


The sun is setting over the hills;

Church bells toll the hour,

Honeysuckle carries on the twilight air.

The dying day carries secrets to the grave.


Winter. The Arno boils over,

Carrying trees, cars,dead cattle,

Into the streets,

Invading the buildings,

Leaving all covered in muck.

The palaces are streaked with damp,

The cobbled streets stink of shit

And grim walls forbid the eye.


Our speech is sick,


And no-one listens.


Can no-one hear my soul


And acknowledge its cry?


I blackmail the silence with blood.


When the damned scream,


It is my voice screaming.


The bodies of fornicators

I lay at my altar;

The diabolical vulva

My Eucharist.

The sacrifice most pleasing

To the demons

Is at the moment of orgasm

When power is released.

So I cull the depraved

As they spew their lust,

Avenging virtue on vice.


Seeing her bare her left breast


For her lover,


I strike.


A young girl,


A wicked beauty.


The smell of blood draws more evil;

The clever,the ambitious,the beautiful

Rush to dabble their hands and make their mark.

Rumour and accusation

Hex the city.

The dead stand denouncing the living.

Perseus holds aloft

The Medusa’s head,

Blood pouring from the neck.