Shoot The Smiling Kid

I’ll shoot the smiling kid.
Leave him to me.

I’ll gurgle his laughter,
Turn it off key.
And lock and load my weight off his shoulders -
Blast his bashful ways to get older.

Leave him to me,
I’ve got bullets to spare.

Let me provoke the joke out his throat,
Stage his new stage nerves
And force him to choke,
Shackle the chuckle and sticky his coat.

Bullshitty you’ve seen what burgundy bleeding can do.
You’re kidding, not stinging.
You’re kiddy shampoo.
I’m actual facts.
“Life Of” National Lampoon.
You’re something to laugh at,
Hardy har har.

I’ll sever his initials and plus from his heart,
Divvy his twinkling visual spark,
And scalp him.
I’ll ask him to share his grey smarts.
His father will need a new suit.

…
His mother will wet the lapel.
And he will never wear it again.
Like,
“Oh, where has it gone, your sweet grin?”

motherfucker.
…

And the hell will break
to the smell of grapes,
crushed in the mash of a months mistakes.

They’ll mourn like it was just before noon,
Until their empty is filled by a moon.

And their world no longer filled by a son,
Whose ignorance was excused as his fun.

I’ll make due making use of this gun.
Not a siren will tell me to run.

And no siren will tell me to run.

—-

I made it.

2008