Why the righteous image at this time of a bullet projecting out of the mouth? Why dub it raw, as it isn’t sticky and pink like a turkey meaty meat, merely the usual: gold, shiny, pointed and cylindrical characteristics? I beg your pardon? about this bullet is uncooked? Why does it multiply with you in parka or suddenly skirt, versions of the you that you were, swallowing bitter bullets as you walked? The metaphors appear without assailant, without gun, fair the holes the bullets opened, the holes through which they went. And right now at the epoch in which you enclosed in goblet like the Pope or head you are spitting up the bullets slow-simmered in your particular juices. You are shitting them out, ideas cut them out from you in clumps of blood, in the time of little flow left. But you cannot drive out every of them. Some, new as the day they entered, boast stretched their grow rapidly heads into the flesh, or blocked their spicy tip into the live through focus of the brain. Will the tongue’s formerly run into with pomegranate seeds be perpetually a preoccupied Eden, that fruit of your girlhood, which, plus donating a grenade, was perchance by no means of innocence? fix your personal uncooked bullets show your face in trade to you, my friends? assent to us and legislate the working voice, instead. Not, “Many bodies give birth to been old as blanks, aluminum cans.” But, “Here are the men who pulled the trigger, seem to be like them.”
