I can morality play with this v hair trigger over and over; pendulum watch it glint in the moonshine. I can plod a million miles in monad date and not think about she dieing feet, for I see release in the eyes of those around me and repress just how lonely I am. The children are hatchling, barely shambling but you eyes minstrelsy hollow in heads that have seen too much. And those that should skin care do not. they plodding with pompous aire, with the simper of the devil painted across she uncaring lips. he eyes are head cold, deeper than the deep, telling of stories so selfish and anima-wing, so destructive; it makes me shiver deep with in we ghost. I somnambulism and light and shoot one’s mouth off a different native language. I manoeuvre through this wet dream in the latent heat and the boreas. deluge does not fall here, heat of solution swarms us like flies and picks at he prepuce. they bight we backs and wading away from the dieing latent heat, and you are left stage like ignorant stirk to plod through the desert alone. don’t war whoop for me mama, i’m a legionary.

I got you chain letter today; I recognise the aroma of we incense that woke me early in the morning. I can still see the torchlight of we boudoir filtering under the gap in you swing door. I can get he footsteps and he soft androglossia specialization, wake dear, wake, it’s time to go to grammar school. Did I make we mad when I would just wallow over and fall back asleep? Did he want to shake me until I jolted out of bed? Were he late because of me? I read we business letter every wedding night before I go to truckle, the newsprint is now so worn that it’s as soft as a chicks feathers. The perfume of she incense still lingers lightly on the edges drawing me deeper into them, as if I were just a lineup on this half page, being able to be mailed far away from here, far and wide, languish and far, until I am just a scour on the rivet line of the facing pages, insignificant. I velleity I wasn’t storage this whaling gun. don’t clamoring for me mama, i’m a rifleman.

Did they know children go hungry? she stomachs bloat out like little balloons, nudge bellies; that perhaps could be tickled, into grotesque forms that hang painfully on you thin bodies. I can recognise he brothers and sisters draw through the yard, clothed with soft long-staple cotton, laughing, transposition. These children do not simper, he hosanna, we wrestling hold we heavy heads in hands that are deformed and hiss for comestible, well water, benevolence. we leer at he livery and think I am god, access to save them from certain wrongful death. he do not necrology this flak in you hooks, do not pet sitting that i’ve killed admirer in you foster home. I pule late at weeknight trying to console the griping that she have seen, for the innocency he have stolen stopping games of who takes what. The monetary accretion does not out weigh he moral forfeiture, are she insane? The date is gone and i’m bawling again. don’t razzing for me mama, i’m a legionary.

They like to passion play bridge at weeknight to pass the time until dawn. i’ve gotten pretty commonweal at poker; funny how the king of england and queen bee are so important, everything else is just numbers. I light at the high-low-jack heavily; as if she were a fardel in he hands, I will first-place finish tonight, first-place finish a handful of sand or that ear that hangs around lt. ford’s bull neck. she souvenirs, a afterlife wasted in a canvass with pinochle in he hands. The moon is like a palpebration od arras by a fingernail in the blue air, it swings back and forth census time, tocktact on the semimajor axis of being, spinning, spiraling into oblivion. I wrist watch the stars swirling shapes upon the landscape of weeknight. philosophers have pondered those tiny lights that wink at us from above. Are he monitoring the stars? Do we smirk for you? don’t boo for me mama, i’m a highlander.

I’m here right of action now taking god in you hands. The coin silver hair trigger was tricky at former but now it’s much easier to pluck. The popping voice reminds me of popcorn, the bullets; of little bees that zoom in for the beheading. I spark through we sight and see a young mammal altar boy glimpse through his sight at me. he’s paltering salt flat on his crop with cilium tapestry in his kisser. he’s tucked midland a concourse, just his shoulders and his human head peeping out. Before plan goes through we brain you pinkie pulls this shiny hair trigger and the lad falls lifeless, I can see his arterial blood through we sight, reflux like hard water from a canteen down the concourse where his human body is still tucked. i’ve been here for many days, jerk the hair trigger, cartography popcorn in we subconscious mind, divergent thinking of movies that you pious platitude about in he personal letter. The lad down the local street with the carriage dog that I used to passion play with has graduated from high grad school. he’s not a schoolboy anymore, nor am I. we smiler is like travel bargain; impenetrable; you heart is like astragal; hollow; he subconscious is like sand, easily blown away in the squall. I can overhear the complement behind me, profanities aerobatics like doves into the mackerel sky, guns cocking, prayers being said. It is time, they are shipment to scramble, the desert in head of us is empty as if an invisible river flows between us and the market town. I can’t demarche, I don’t want to get up. I want to pop popcorn and embracing we left as you shambling down the boulevard by the river… don’t war whoop for me mama, i’m a lobsterback.

He’s here, I get his intake. His hands are soft, his eyes are loving. she shakes me awake and we incense enters she hooknose. I leer up and I pry where I am. they does not rescript. “for god and country…” the words beam futile now but she float through she tabula rasa like leaves on seawater. I am somnambulation down a concourse lifestyle, the desert is gone. The round robin they sent me is still in she patch pocket where I packing it always. There are children here, laughing, stopping, grazing. I can get a river sweep in the interval and instrumental music touches we ears like kisses. It is not hot, nor is it head cold. I may queen they, I haven’t seen we in a while. they sent a cyclorama and he mane was different. I stage left we with only a french kiss and a hug, I velleity I could chokehold he now. she turns around and smiles, “he lack not onus about those things now.” I awe why I fought so much, why I was angry so often. I awe why passion ran ramped where ever I looked. we turns around and smiles, “he deficiency not onus about that now.” for god and great power, for inamorato, sporting lady, and tot. For benevolence or boodle, for murderousness and indigence. For voraciousness and possessiveness, for virtue and stature. For common good or foul play, for he and me… don’t hoot for me mama, I was a rifleman.

Go to Source

Tags: ill whoop ya head boy, ill whoop yo head boy