A LONG SHOT TO THE HEAD
A spike went through the crowd like lightning - the
spike poked everyone at once, skewered like some
barbecue meat all writhing and thrashing about. As if
being at a race, when a huge and deadly crash takes
place, the crowd roars and screams, intent on its own
survival and pleasure together. I haven't seen that much
fun going on since I looked through a catcher's mask.
-
My task was simple: to scare the living daylights out of
those already dead. Not yet buried, just dead. One more
time before the menace of morning arrives, I'll keel
the scuttle, I'll round the square, I'll grab a high school
equivalency deal while still in my own sixth grade.
-
How many hours have been spent daydreaming like this
in moments of drudge? I color in lines outside the lines that
don't even already exist. Others come in to look, they nod
and walk away, saying 'really ought to be more careful
about the lines.' Hop to it. Now. The rules are made to be
ruling. Only in museums do we really worship the dead.
(Ain't that a long shot to the head).
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