How shall I kill off my love for you?
Shall I blow it to pieces with Semtex
in an improvised roadside device?
Or bury it alive in the garden,
with a patio over its face?
Shall I strip it naked and gas it,
removing the gold from its teeth?
Or behead it and chop it to pieces
and scatter them over the heath?
I might kill it by running it over
or fill it with stones till it sinks.
I want to be brutal and ruthless
I don’t care, now, what anyone thinks.
Let me run amok and terrorise it –
can you have a massacre of one? –
I’m thinking Columbine, Hungerford, Dunblane:
but – I forgot – I don’t have a gun.
Should I drive it to Eastbourne, I mean Beachy Head,
and push it over the cliff?
Or sever its carotid artery
and watch it bleeding to death?
I could throw it from the top of a building
or hang it with rope from a tree;
I could lace its food with cyanide:
I want it to suffer like me.
Whatever I do, I have to be certain
that it’s dead before I move on;
the love for you that possessed me
cannot be allowed to live on.
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