High upon the tower
of your ego-mania bliss
i am setting bombs and launching rockets
at you: CHRIS.

Christopher McDaniel of Oildale:
******* in the face!
I cannot believe you disgraced
the sacred of my world for your fake needy weakness
like this, and now I do hate!

Now I do hate!
Apprehend yourself for the impact,
I promise you will not enjoy the ride.
For all the lies and falsity,
Whatever did you say to make this arise?

I care not, luxerious one.
Like fly paper so full at Jack's.
I shall go beachward - alone -
since you mean nothing to me,
as I do you.

As I do to you:

mean nothing.
You are really something else.
False pretender of things lovely, demon of boring apathetic hell.

You smell, too so brush the teeth, fool.

Now the sirens weep about the inlet,
Red-eyed, she goes walking beachward somedays;
While the men are picking grasses, she is staring
At the wide expanse that took her boy away.
And the waves become emboldened now to touch her,
Softly sinking sands surround her knees;
In the forests of brazilwood, factors shudder
For the troops that they had marshalled,
Raked with fire in armfuls,
Cut down in the darkness of the trees.