Killing Blond


I can’t find many reasons to deliberately look down on blondes, but I do find this general disinterest in letting my eyes wonder towards a chalky letdown. This being too casual accompanied by this weak drone who finds the dampness in breath to ask for a casual conversation only to be greeted with a heavy boot to the groin causing the vomit to rise before I can muster the politeness to say no.

Sometimes it’s these silly whores who find it necessary to whine on about fantasies of rape and displeasure that only seem to bore me and reduce my swollen nature. The only image I can conjure from this are eyes slowing receding back in the head, relieving the world of another “fantasy.”

This shyness angers me, ignoring it sends needles up down my spine in a vain effort to remind me how selfish I am that instead of paying attention I’m drifting on about how easy it is to scare people with words like purpose and love.

Simple, like killing blond, principals of lust ringing in the Bose Tri-Ports, realizing how extremely cut my abdomen is.

Few people know how easy it is to cave in someone’s face with a small billeting hammer, almost silent, as clean as my Waterman fountain pen, blue marble finish with oak encrusted handle and gold trim.

My thoughts drift to the circus, watching the rings come to life holding hands and gesturing gentle love, buying cotton candy and then forgetting I ever had it in my hand.



-k