out of bullets

Not so serious when you are looking down the barrel of a gun is it? Life looks good from there? a long dark tunnel reflecting into some brass and gunpowder. I found him, finally, I emptied a clip in the dark and hoped. Whether to hit him or not I haven't decided. It's invulnerable, those explosive charges only blew up that bank. I suppose it's better now with this pile of money but why can't I get rid of him? Looking down the barrel of the gun in my own hand I realize what I'm fighting against. Ideas are invincible.

p.s. litle bit of V, little bit of FC.

Conflated

Dear friend,
I'm sorry I stole your camera and left you drunk on the side of the road. Sorry. I curled up next to you. You say there is no other reason for you to stay here. I can't say the same. I'm just where I would be without you. If I'm what's keeping you here, where is it that you really want to be? I'm sorry I slapped him, I know I laugh too loud, talk too fast, drink too much, and pass out too early. I didn't want to hurt your feelings when I played you into each others' arms. I'm sorry I bought you that last drink. I'm sorry your not here anymore. I let things get out of hand but didn't elbow you in the nose. Sorry. I'll put you in the shower and make you drink water till you puke. I'll flag you a cab and send you back to the bar. Have a Dark and Stormy, that's our weather. I am afraid you will find that it tastes awful. They don't make them like they did before; out of control and irrational. Now its sweet and predictable. You're lost, I'm sorry I know exactly where that is.
only a little bit of myself. (maybe half an e or so)

Mass Murder

I was with my friend, who was the queen of England. We lived in a small house in the bad part of town just around the corner from the mansions. I had a little stack of toys with explosives strapped to them. Then they came, and we killed them all. Shot them, bludgeoned them to death, left blood like watermarks on the walls, and pools on the floor. Then we ran. There are more of us now but not with me. We killed them all, but not the one who betrayed us. We went back to the house as soon as they were gone we kept living there but didn't turn on the lights. Every time we thought we were on our own, they came back. Splintering our door, guns drawn trying to find us. Cutting into our conscious, with a needle. We never cleaned up the blood.

I missed it

I missed the dirt and sand; the hay and smoke; the cold and fire.
Saturday: Wake up throw food in a bag, go to work - think about how it should be... Wake up! Its freezing outside. Its 6:00 AM and still dark. The sleeping bag you are in has frosted over. There is no fire. Your clothes are so cold they krinkle if you touch them. But most of all you have to pee.
The closest outhouse is a 15 minute walk.
Sunday: Wake up hit snooze, turn over and dream of how it's supposed to be:
A chocolate crepe, a cold pear, grungy hair, the hike up the mountain pretending you will get cell phone reception if you get to the top. Listen to the drums, watch the fire dancers and feel it. The faire, something that cannot be found no matter where else you go. A perfect world? probably not. But its good enough for me.
Beep Beep Beep!