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HAMMER by Sandra Lester.
Baptised by Mephistopheles' hand and sweat
I hang, irascible in a ramshackle garden shed;
with cobwebs and gadgets, damp as a derelict church:
engulfed and darkened, by a creaking silver birch.
Only I, and the twisted totalitarian ever knows
when his satanic, fickle, deadly side will show.
By day I hit nails into floorboards and cupboards;
night dumps me in his tool-bag, where I'm smothered.
Scissored with screwdrivers, I peer through sackcloth;
hurled into the car boot, I feel his blood-curdling wrath.
At the mercy of the crackerjack, possessed by a dybbuk,
he kerb-crawls for tender flesh for a madman's nip and tuck.
The frenzied devil dictates and I am his freak;
controlling me as a glove-puppet; week after week.
He drives cool, calm and collected in his perverted hearse;
this is the core of his mission, a schadenfreude curse.
I told the quivering chisel how fortunate he was;
utilised dutifully to free-up the roof of dead moss.
Nothing I can do to change my demonic reputation;
I'm as schizothymic as my demented custodian.
Confronted by the cops, I was chucked behind a water-butt;
canines and drunks urinated on me and dead leaves stuck
to my trunk: it decays sanguine-soaked to the core!
will the moirai keep me banging on the hangman's door?
Will I continue to stare at spindly-legged spiders?
Will I have to commit more grisly, manic murders?
To the contrary, I am removed from the shed's rusty hook;
for multiple murder, I was thrown the judicial book.
I now wear a coat of transparent polythene;
and a dubious label, "Murder Weapon"; unsightly, obscene.
I go down in crime history as the heinous hammer;
an icon amongst guns and bludgeoning spanners.
I had no fair trial: wielded by my master, whom I feared,
a short, sharp shock ended my chequered career.
Detained in the cells for murder weapons on Death Row;
promiscuous as my master, I sleep with herrenvolk:
guns, axes hatchets and all kinds of knives,
we compare gory notes on how we took our victims' lives.