Tuesday, April 7, 2009


I found this little half of a poem that I never finished, but it's so weird and I almost like it:


Death spoke to me
late this past Monday afternoon.
He said, "Son you are a waste,
how I wish I could strike
you and your dirty Nikes down."

I said, "Death
first of all I am a girl


And that's all there is, and then a drawing of a little buttface.

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