scheherazade rambles on
the guy in the corner just wants to drink his beer in peace
“wont that bitch just shut up”
he says
dodging the daggers of the spellbound
who sniff
“youre dyin too, you better come up with somethin soon”
and how cavalier
for him not to acknowledge
the stink of death
wafting in from the corners
like it’s not the air we breathe anyway
Beruit pumps the
blood
nothing quite
like an AK-47 a blackmarket Sidewinder and a strapped
seventeen year old
bombs away! indeed.
when death is fact
it is
no longer
crisis
&
you can’t talk yr way out of a car bomb
can ya, pal?
it may be oblivion, but it ain’t nothin’, is it
like,
all these motherfuckers
killin’ everybody, that's their story,
and if such equals
the babbling of scheherazade,
it makes murder
their ennui?
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