Sublime sun, no socks and cigarettes,
concrete jars each step.
My finger strokes the trigger aimed at a perfect fullness,
targeted to smash smooth surfaces.

This shooting gallery also houses art.

Sparks of adrenaline fuel blood, hot lead flows through veins.

Like a toast has been raised by a crystal tapping,
the scene lies in focus.
Every melon visible,
I choose a victim.

“Every dog has it’s day”.

An ******* squeezing,

as splatters land upon tatters,
a cold slime slick of fresh pink flesh.

I lap it up.

Second on the list:
I’ve always wanted to hurl
a pumpkin from a third floor window,
watch the flecks of orange explode all over the grey concrete below,
a bulbous bursting of gourd upon ground.

An exuberant exhalation of at last:
I have got something done.