And before me a rainbow wanes; And I sense my death is akin to its seven colours separating; And I have a sudden desire; To be released from my body and to join them; But the desire ends when the colours tell me to live; Saying there are other things for me to give.

Rendered gym bodies clothed in labels and insignias exercise like trembling lakeside flamingos looking for love; Gym bodies biding buttocks bold; Finessed with egos balanced; For that image pimp hovering about; Looking for sculptured names tagged in Botox.

He leaves behind his coarse life and rides on the back of a winged drone; Furrow-ploughing flat rooftops; Afterwards train surfing under the Milky Way; Before slip-streaming whirly-whirls to their very end; His distant howls for approval waking in-dream his alcoholic father momentarily:

A wild storm streaming across heartland America pauses briefly; The winds and rains suddenly abating; Seemingly to doubt itself; Sensing no human fear of its destructive power; And whether it had a purpose; Then the prayers came, and it resumes.

When narcissists tell the world what they secretly do; In every free moment pursuing their cradling angels; Through social media wide, whiteboards held in view; Freshly awoken by trending discourse, all they would crave; Sitting atop fountains, phones pointing heavenward.

And there is no distance between the Lungs and Cigarette smoke; Unlike foundation Skin which has built upon it layers of Grime; Neither Tar nor Chemicals will recognize any intermediary; For Cigarette smoke contaminates the Sacs within the Lungs; And cannot be scrubbed away like Grime is done with Soap.

My gun and I meet. It’s for freedom. I twirl it. Wait for it to stop spinning. What is freedom? Kill myself. Freedom number 1. Or not. Freedom number 2. A choice. I’m no philosopher. I like my gun. I’m empowered. The authority. My mouth is my gun barrel. Says it. Freedom number 3. I get happy. Warm like. I’m a Texas Ranger. Fight crime. I’m Al Capone. Territorial. I strut bandy legged like Sheriff Smith. I’ll be Sheriff Smith. Freedom number 4. Fight for justice. I believe in guns. Thou shalt not kill. Wrote Moses. A simple command. For the flock. I’m simple. Guns for every good sheep. Guns in good hands. For the righteous. Solving problems. Freedom number 5. I’m scared. Violence comes and comes. In the culture. In movies. In video games. My right to self-defence. Freedom number 6. There are bad people out there. When I shoot, I could be right. I could be wrong. I could be Guano. I am that chance. Freedom number 7.

She likes sticky ice-cream and barber-pole candy; Her dancing, her mummy applauds; She pushes big things into tiny holes to see if they will fit; She rubs her plastic dolls, trying to heat them; And when she is naughty daddy gives her a scolding; Who makes her cry, telling her to sit.

I walked to my front door, turned the key, and took a step back; To wait awhile and see if peace is to come; Or chaos. It was my day off and I had been shopping for fun; And for the entire day my credit card had been feng shui. Now I can’t remember how I left my house; If in disarray I’ll shop some more; But if it feels like calm my shopping is done.