Sunday, June 7, 2015


Missiles out of the blue
Is a string of pretty sounds,
A whistling in the woods,
In the dark, the park
Preferable to wasting
Alone in a room
On wards designed for it. 
Thus, I envy the ones
We bug-splat,
We liberate
From elderly pain,
And its foot-tapping goodbye. 
Lucky bullseye bastards
Is the way
My impotence sees them.

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