Sitting at the bar, gun in hand, you thought, Sure, they know where I am, I will be caught Before the six o clock news. Her body Lay slumped on a chair. She was dead. Nobody Knew. Her face was mash, a soft bloody pulp. Cruciform, her hands retained a silent pulse. I can still laugh; he smiled, lifting his pint Up with one oily hand. There is a point, A breaking point: like an egg overdone. He walked down to the basement with his gun By his side, the weight of the world crushing His capabilities. He was in pain. I found her lying there, with her legs splayed. In truth, I should have used a larger spade.
Posted on: Sat, 07 Sep 2013 21:02:01 +0000
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