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Sunday, May 9, 2004
Steel
My face
i feel small whiskers
on it
my hands
are bigger
than they used to be
i am wearing
a tight shirt
a tight pair of jeans
and i feel too tight
it's more than it used to be
you see, i'm a killer,
i kill my meat.
i kill what i eat.
and, though this fleshly form
i see a little hand in me.
little face to me,
no whiskers,
no big hands,
no tight jeans,
he's got fat on his skin,
he's got feeble eyes, got glasses that don't look so stylish,
he doesn't know what's gonna go,
and i'm a murderer, i hunt what i eat,
i kill it till it's gone,
make sure it doesn't live.
this fucker's
gonna die.
(funny all the killing,
going on, in this world,
funny how i died yesterday
and i've gotta die again)
bang bang,
i pull the gun, that solemn sound,
and i watch the eyes go blank,
staring up at the sky who did it all.
(smoke hissin from the muzzle)
someday i'm gonna kill it all.
(it's just putting
a dog
to sleep.)
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