Let the black dogs run wild,
sharpen the knives for
some real back stabbing,
roundup the usual suspects,
the mystery is about to begin.
The cardigan teen with
his nose buried in his iPhone-
he’s a suspect- murderous thoughts
sprouting his blood-brain barrier.
The neglected son tethered
to a high ranking, paying
position in the family business
with nothing burdens-
he’s a suspect too.
Eight others are robbing
Peter to pay Paul
to pay Mary to pay Martha
to pay the extorting genomes,
on the verge of being exposed,
all dangling near disinheritance.
The old codger with the money
whose always leaving clean knives out,
knowing they will forever thirst
for meat and blood, the thrust
that will do the work for him,
the job his lawyers failed to do
until the whole dirty gang
finds him splayed on the calico rug,
a Chuka Bocho clever in his stomach,
a Wusthof stuck in a vertebrae-
well, he was a prime suspect,
but now, obviously he is not.
Patricide is not always a family crime.
Point the finger at the mother,
daughter, sister, son, brother
but also the heart, soul, brain
of all others inflicted with hate
that makes everyone suspects too.