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charise-clarkePoems
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.
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Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 4:11 PM UTC
Shooting a watermelon
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.
Written by
charise-clarke
English
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 4:11 PM UTC
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