Book DustBook DustBook Dust
I'm sorry. I can't come out today. There are men on the lawn. Men with vultures' heads Under their shiny black hoods. They can smell the disease On my breath ten miles away.
I'm sick because I Wouldn't give them my books. Old paper pages with Friends inside will always Smell better than Fire and ashes and Gasoline.
There are eyes in The flowers and Ears in the boxes Of chocolate. How can I Get Well Soon! with all these Strange men hanging around?
Perhaps it's not so bad
| I write and read and attempt to live at my computer. Lame poetry and wildlife pictures are my specialities. :] I adore my dog, Syd Barret. He's teh best. |
Moo.
Anxious
--
“If you’d let me finish. This glowing figure came to me-”
“Oh my, you had an encounter with God-”
“Quiet. She asked me-”
“God’s a woman? Should’ve known. Was she blonde?”
--
"Well I'll be a Wookiee and you can just suck it. Where's the meat?"
"Yeah, charred flesh is pretty much my favorite kind."
*Backs ...away...slowly...*
I didn't do it.
--
“If you’d let me finish. This glowing figure came to me-”
“Oh my, you had an encounter with God-”
“Quiet. She asked me-”
“God’s a woman? Should’ve known. Was she blonde?”
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