Bore me to death with your lyrical prose.
Murder ain’t the answer when you
question my opinion. Upside down the
battle cry we march around the temple.
Bearing bombs of frankincense with anthrax
in the garden. Digging holes with broken
spades. Lift-off left without a hitch while
Barney Miller scratched his eczematous
scalp. A little girl let me die with leather pants
and blackened lips. Eat the Bette Davis stew,
with onion rings, brokeback pie and paranoia
salad; with a copper spoon and a pocket
knife. Everlast the liquid state, the melting sun
in boiling glass, the six-string catatonic scale,
the crimson bleeding flower.
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