Willesden Green, London, 1979.

I see you, habitual, walking your dog.
Every morning, every evening.
Tall grey man.
Scruffy mongrel bitch.
And there is not one among us,
in this metropolitan society,
aware of the fact,
we have a mass murderer
in our midst.
Except the little bitch.
She follows where you to and fro.
Bleep sees,
what you do,
when the door is closed.

I see you, tall and grey, with Bleep.
Through the misty windows
of the local Jewish cafe.
As I eat salt-beef sandwiches,
and drink Hebrew juice,
at the start of every day.
There is something about you.
Your aura drags like a noose.
The little bitch sees all.
Bleep knows, but cannot say.

These are the dreams of Bleep.
Talcum powdered face.
Charcoal bone shadows.
Bloodshot saffron eyes.
Candle flames and mirror fetish.
Erasing all living colour.
Cochineal blood synthesis.
Saliva foam, drool and drip.
Stepping outside the body,
in detached imagination.
Buried in the woods,
then dug up again.
Such sinister refinements
induce involuntary ejaculation.
This ungodly fantasy lives,
in a reality long gone.
And in the night,
Bleep dreams,
as things start
to go horribly wrong.

I see you, grey man walking tall.
You are in love,
with your own dead body.
And with the lonely boys,
stuffed under the floorboards.
Retrieved to dance at midnight
in a numb Bacardi fuzz
to the music of Mahler.
And Bleep watches,
from a cowering corner,
the macabre pantomime of the necromancer.
The little bitch sees all.

She sees the dexterity
of your strangulations.
She sees the deftness
of your disarticulations.
She sees the limp bodies
and your fevered preparations.
She smells the rotting flesh,
she feels the kiss of death.
She witnesses all
of your evil machinations.

I see you, tall man so grey.
You once asked me,
on a summer evening,
if I was alone.
You said it was a nice night for a murder.
I didn't know what to say.
I saw you years later on the t.v.
when the police arrested you.
Blocked drains
gave your evil game away.

Nobody will see you weep
for your victims.
That is your private grief.
On a path strewn
with ghastly encounters.
These are the dreams of Bleep.