Bring Me His Head For Revenge with Stitches
As I'm eating a plate of green mango salad, a thought enters my mind, hippie mentality I maintain, Black horses are like white horses, except cooler, louder in design, softer in denial.Two weeks have passed, I'm driving my taxi, two black kids get in the backs black leather seats with retreat, tethered and creased, where they direct me towards the darkest streets
I follow their soft deep voices and shaky showings to a flickered lit alley all orange and dim, they cast the patterns of stop signs and demand all I have, all my bread, I hand them the money as calm as a cloud, as they cook up their escape out the yellow checkered doors I simply make a small sarcastic remark, nothing crude, nothing racist.
The last words I hear are: "What the Fuck this.." before my eternal silence, right before they sliced my neck, blood spewing out in front of my face like a cherry Kool-Aid fountain.
I now live in a small but lovely mansion dressed with gems, Living full time, a well paid occupation in a paradise where angels are nice to admire, as souls spiral with glittering peices of fire sparks crackling
I have given those two black horses a dream, every morning before knights of insamnia, nights of fright, A dream where they see me eating a salad reading the exact thoughts I always and forever think about the beauty of all mankind
Prisoned in more than walls, in poison wells of leprosy they dwell, claustrophobic, dripping one drip of life at a time like a leaking faucet, forever partners in crime
But one day, one day when the sun shines like no other day, they will join me as fellow painters of mine.
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