A grenade. The beginning of World War III. Dream a little dream.
Buzzzz. Phew. Gargle gargle. Flight of the phoenix. Crash and burn.
Joojoo bellies. Psychedelic road trip. Flying saucers disturb my saucy
Sausages. Earth shattering. Cataclysm. Tie me up. Tie me down. Pour
some sugar. Saltines. Tea biscuits. Paper machete. It’s raining bullets.
Body parts. Mutilated. Heavy breathing. Swallows and cranes.
Third base teeth and mouth. Meow. Cats and claws. Magic bullets
swimming up my battered veins. The bomb shelter, yes the bomb. Stop.
I’m drowning. Oh – the pain—excruciating pain—drown my sorrows,
shoot the pain. Brimstone and treacle. Intergalactic explosions. Floating
corpses. Persuasive poems. The Cantos of Ezra Pound. Pound. Pound.
Pound? No more brownies for me. Damn those insects crawling up my