Wednesday, May 14, 2008
I've been walking the beach the hot hissing beach with bullets thumping sand poomp poomp poomp daring the piss poor shooters like the Colonel in Apocalypse Now standing tall and yelling at the heads cowering under hands and fetal positions and bodies pressed into every burp in the Earth. I'm asking for it right in the Kevlar. You can hit that right? Sure you can because everyone can have good aim sometimes and punch I take it in the stomach because I'm pretty hungry anyway and I bend down to pluck the metal mushroom salivating already down my chin and bites feel weird anymore not having teeth or maybe I do have teeth just metal turned to metal grrrrrriiiiinding but I'll never know because I pass the mirrors instead of break and look down down at anything except the other me looking down.
And back at home the paint is crumbling around the windows but damn does that shit taste good because it's really fucking old and someone I probably would've liked painted those layers gold-red-mustard-mint-white-mustard-mint and I snack in the closet creeping out when no one is looking since I might be turning into a worm but the mirror thing and all so I'm not sure and yeah that's funny because you wouldn't be looking either if you didn't hear my voice because it's not everyday you pass a window in the mood to hear someone dying from munching lead paint and vomiting little soldiers and dreaming about sand between my toes and bad aim and dreaming about learning disabilities but back under the cartoon sun the bullets poomping so hard I'm screaming and my stomach is too full to crawl anymore and my tongue is sailing away battleship grey.
You can laugh.
Because my blood is mercury and pops the glass in my brain. Arteries like thermometers popping when you play with matches. So what if my teeth marks are on the window frame.
I'm planning on staying a while. Munching just munching.
I'm polishing a nice caliber.
And saving the last one.