Throw a few rose petals into the mix.
You always fancied the smell of those.
Do you like mint and sunflower?
I hope so.

Tulips are too soft for you.
I thought you’d prefer buttercups or daffodils.
Don’t worry,
I put both in
for good measure.

Ivy feels nice.
Perhaps you’ll like the taste of it.
Can’t hurt to try.

Remember Christmas?
The mistletoe was romantic.
Perhaps I’ll put some of that in there as well.
The colour’s a little bit off, though.
How about some periwinkle?
Or foxglove, even.
That should make it better.

I hope you like this, dear.
Here, have a sip.
Or two.

It’s a lovely day for a stroll. The yellow thing’s come out to play
again.
Cloudless skies, lush green grass; it’s the sort of weather I’d
die for.

Take a stroll through town, just to see what’s there
today.
Not much different from last time; there’s more chewing gum
on the floor.

He bumped into me, said he was sorry,
begged for mercy.
Can’t blame him, but I didn’t believe it. He wasn’t
sorry at all.

Pull out a knife. Nice and shiny,
for now.
Everyone’s screaming, like I’m the idiot.
He started it.

Plunge it into his throat. Gut him.
Go for the heart.
Stab at his eyes a little. Doesn’t stand a chance.
The juice gets on my clothes.

I hate it when people bump into me.

Fancy seeing you here. You’re very pretty.
Beautiful, big bright eyes.
Where’ve you been hiding?

I love the way you stare back at me,
I get that a lot you know.
Do you fancy getting together?

No? What a pity. I thought we had something.
I’d best be going
then. Maybe some other time.

Fancy seeing you here. You’re very pretty.

It’s a pretty little thing, that butterfly.
Sitting there
flaunting its stuff.
Makes me mad.

I step on it.
Crush it,
under my boot,
mush it around, some.

It’s all sticky, now.
I don’t care.
Just wanted to show it
who’s the boss around here.

Amadeus, where art thou? For I see you by yonder tree, speaking
to the squirrel’s nut.

Amadeus where art thou? You’re no Romeo, yet you sit under yonder balcony, muttering
gibberish under the bush.

I write this to you in sweat, for I have no blood nor ink to send to yonder hill atop which
you fancy a stroll.

I don’t fancy writing this, really, for I don’t quite know what to say as you gaze
at the grassy window pane behind which the kraken sits.

Amadeus where art thou? For this is your plight.
You can make sense not of anything I write.