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Plastic Tipped Bullets
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I Walk Naked Into a Cloud
Driving through a glowing fusion of
plastic tipped bullets,
watching the boys turn into
babies again.
The dream of renewal begins
with the ashtray of lies. We can
plop ourselves down in front of
the television set,
and pretend that the truly blessed
won't find us at home.
Hot young bears growl their
war torn cries, while
the matted dog sits on the roadside
and counts the feet dragging by.
We're going to work and we're
going to comply. Put on
our rubber gloves and hope the day
ends soon.
The more we pretend to be alive,
the more the temptation to
succumb to the disguise.
We fail at emotions but we
excel at hate.
How very proud we should be of
our capacity to kill.
Blowing bubbles through a straw
laced with cigarette smoke,
vomiting the blood that began inside.
One time I stood outside a window.
I looked in.
Watched the pantomime of the
people inside the room.
Became one with the programme.
Changed my name
and died again.
This is fantastic on so many
This is fantastic on so many levels. I have always been a fan of your work
Vive le Quebec libre!