He was the hurting
kind, sharp like a sword, seasoned on vile. He went through the
world, beheading daisies in the cold glint of his ire. His world a
room of stacked trainers, and all the hopeless fluid modernity of
young lives. Boxed, glittered and sold. I wonder about him - the
women, (but of course they would be girls) porn-guns locked on entry. This would be the world gloom that he would seed - into
bodies, hearts and minds; and oh how the tenderness would rip under
this defiling. His erect wounding would force all sides- break all
yearnings. Top guns and maverick monsters, jumping from ring tone to
ring tone. Oh how these young killers fly. MB
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