Monday, September 07, 2009


The sport kills
No need to impress friends
This game kills
Diversion only breeds desire

This risk will put you to sleep
This chance kills
Practice makes perfect
So unfortunately exact

I like being imperfect
These skills make you a dreamer
This craft kills

Friends don’t let friends drive proud

The road kills
The bed kills
The ring kills

The dance floor….

The detective said:
While she danced
She fell dead
In the arms of her partner

This life kills
Eventually everybody
Crosses the finish line

These feelings kill
You better not be too sentimental
For a decent heart rate

Sex kills
Food kills
Work kills
Leisure kills

And pretty soon
The kills start sounding
Like videogame credits

Your eye can kill you
And you hand too
You ear
Your tongue
Your breathing passages
Your everything’s
And your nothingness
All of these and so many more
Can efficiently put you to rest

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