"Fifteen million reasons", continues the dream-
Master of illusion, evade reality,
bite him on the ass.
Wondering over the possible
end of the paragraph,
He cheats the reader and leaps
to the 'fin', if only to save
yet another ink cartridge.
Brass fittings: falling lazily
to the floor, the carpenter bemoaning
another weapon of distruction/distraction
erases the evidence of his existence,
with a handiwipe and a smile, then reloads.
An arsenic solution invade her coffeehouse
conversation, liquidates dates and complications.
Little girl screams quiet, down, depressed, as the
local constabulary 'wheels', her blue/black prowler
around the corner. Breakfast of champions.
In the morning her head will still screw on,
but the threads will be worn. She's had
trouble with overeager fingers in the past.
Clumsy hands working over her software,
neverminding the consequences,
her hardwired me-meow-memory,
passes to her subset conscience.
On the way out, there is no sign
"Hope you enjoyed the stay." Id.
Or "Come back soon."
Super-ego is driving without mirrors
and the road is dark.