We were melted guitar parts
With a heavy bass, freaked beats
And one of those dippy organs
That signifies hallucinogens
We’d erupt, like childish bombs
And ricochet our lovely bullets
Tumbling unrehearsed
But tuneful, into anecdote
Into closer than you dare
A gripped fist, like meditation
You said. I didn’t care
To spit, the pips,
Or grow them from hand
To heavy, to the imaginary
Reviews we read
In unpublished papers
Underneath whose headlines
Runs a story old as stories
A song forever sung
Like a firm grip to a warm gun.
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