verbal
Bundy Fetish
Ted Bundy
Fetish

I'm really sick when it comes to socks...They're
parts of the combination to the deepest, most secret
recesses of my mind.
   — Ted Bundy
It's one of my fantasies -

     a wooden pharmaceutical chest, drawer after drawer, filled with socks. In crisp cellephane envelopes, the colours of the sky

at sunset when I sheathe my attractive feet in ribs of black with yellow bands and gather my sticks and gloves, the false sling

starched and clean, secured to my shoulder. Later there is a sense of sorrow, remorse, etcetera; I dislike the other field. Dried leaves and disorderly scratches, from branches, her urgent fingernails

the pain in my hands. I soak them in a basin of warm water and admire each clever finger
     following the even rows, the letters of the law in my own defense.

I object, the girls all looked the same — that girl with money enough to fill each drawer with a ransom of wool and cotton - spinning gold from a wheel,

spinning when I see the part in her dark hair: her eyes are avarice, deflecting me.

I would wear my one pair of socks and underwear and rinse them in the sink, the sight of them. Deriding me from the shower-rod threadbare

The man was an enigma, intelligent, a semiotician:

the sock is an indexical sign, the police in Pensacola found traces of her hair, Even there I was buying socks everywhere.

I am too fine for this, I want to lay out my affluence in sleek pairs,

have her lie among the elastic and silk, like a daisy, It makes me sad because I've never seen such - such beautiful socks before.

I imagine it is someone else, tearing their bodies apart, their skin in his teeth,

the bite-mark that is my undoing, the distinctive curve of poverty: I said that they were pinned up every night,

I did not mention they were red - they left pale blood-pools on the enamel, the white expanse of their ruined thighs;

I always felt that I would have really made it if I had all the socks and underwear I could ever use,

if I could tear this from one girl or another, her fault.

And somehow find the ecstasy (her last breath pulled slowly from her throat), hidden in the secret recesses,

the deepest pangs —

     I had to restructure my life, from the beginning, I was always so cold. It may have affected me, alight with fever, I slip her over me.

She is argent, the sheen of the fleshings
     folded together, lip to toe like rose petals in my bed, my bed of roses.

-Lynn Crosbie-

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