On Self-pitying Madness "Don't you stare me down," she cries A fistful of pennies "Stop looking at me!" dripping from her hand "I can see right through you!" plink plink plink on the floor Four 0' clock in the morning she weeps her head down Night shadows own the room the flickering candle between them Pondering a puddle of pennies her resolve slipping away Her face in the mirror laughs On Incipient Rage Between the spokes of his machine A gun pushed down his pants Calloused fingers push caress cloth on steel barrel tight a crack of ass chromed steel bated awe Palm sweat itch strokes his piece This motor room florescent will quite ignore the dawn though chill winds creep the glass He hears her against the wall Pistol leaps into his hand barks a hole into her forehead which photograph tickles the breeze {CONTINUED} copyright 2002 Thomas Paul (WORDWULF) SternerHowe