The narcissistic urge flips eggs now.
Our ex-veteran father-figure gets a hamster, calls it Snuffles.
The thing you don’t know until the end of the script of the Tarantino-twist is that our protagonist sits
rocking back and forth in
a barren room inside a strait-jacket.

Meanwhile, our enemy shouts
something along the lines of:
"grab a spoon
I hope they don’t wash their hands"
The stones fallen off their strings,
gunshots hotwire themselves away from
a dubstep kind of drilling, the pipe dream
of an intimate email relationship.
Shout again,
"I hope you never feel those clammy hands.
Blaarghh"
Your diner eggs stink
I chucked up
In the kitchen bin.

Crowd’s a buzzin’
But it’s just you and me
Nobody knows us,
It’s easy to be

A name to a face,
You’re still just a 'who'
But put us together,
And see? That makes two

Powder room princess,
In veils of smoke
Rugged old gangster,
We’re sharing a ****

Onto the floor,
A dance and a sway
Silly and sultry,
We’re flying away

Made it back home,
To finish the night
Music is playing,
You slip out of sight

Hand grazes powder
A most wonderful find
Nose-deep in snow -- Help!
I think I’m going blind.

Violent clangs echo
From the TV,
And the Bride is a
Vengeful gazelle,
Galloping forth and
eviscerating the
ones who stand in
her path to---

        “**** Bill again?
                 Is that all you do when I’m gone? Snort
         Coke, get high, lounge back
         And watch this ******* ****?”

The cigarette burns hot in her fingers,
Smoke sighing from her lungs and
She smiles silently. Plum lips pucker
And one hand beckons him forth,
the other raising a silent finger.

Skin tight yellow and black
Hugs her curves and she
triumphs, golden goddess
Reclaiming herself in a
Blazen trail of ******
Revenge.

      “Come on, I’ve been gone and now
        I’m here. I’ve missed ******* you
       And hearing your pretty little moans.”

Ashes on her pant leg, feet flex and
She rises up, eyes fixed on the screen.
Cat eyes smirk and she takes his hand,
Dark bob razor sharp as she dreams
About the day she’ll wield the katana.

I wanna be artistic
**** achromatic
violence like lip biting
& brain
splattered on the walls
of some place sacred
&I; wanna be worshipped like satan.

Sweet Christ.
my hopes are high.
as am I.

you've got a mind
I'd like to **** blind.
so whenever
you've got the time &
if you like
being set on fire.

I could help.

but we aren't friends
otherwise.
& you're selfish.