bullet tears me half-open,
and my steaming innards spill onto my hands
like hell's party streamers.
i scream,
but it ain't nothing more than another voice
in a twisted wailing choir.

inside-out on this dyer's holiday,
i'd kinda hoped to pass as i should've--
a half-smoked cigarette between my lips
and my lady waiting for me on the other side.
but then--
a lot of things ain't what they should be.

04/10/2011

Posted on 05/01/2011
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