I’m a murderer, I slowly came to realize in the latter part of my 19th year.
Killing not for the usual designs, cash, money, drugs, and women – well, maybe for that last one.
I’m interested in sex, undeniably.
Sexy features, on a fine Italian auto, a lode of red deep enough for a mine,
Acute angles and subtleties like the longing gasp of an inhale,
the overdrive on a PRS Custom 24,
Fed through the seraphic strains of a JCM2000,

longing for simple artistic deception – faux flickering images real enough to change you,
prose that makes a camouflaged man in green and sand cry,
a smattering of words to eat rust off nails.
The cutting edge is insufficient.  no damage dealt.  all threat and no attack.

I’m killing for cool,
Slipstreamed and aerodynamic as hell,
and I won’t be satisfied until I hear the air screaming in my ears.