His doctor told him to take the medicine and so he took it, and died but not before he was arrested at night on the streets yelling with a Samurai sword.
(So I was told).
Always with the violence. Can’t I have a nice poem about rabbits? Little De Land rabbits, hop hop hop.
Fade into the earth, little rabbit, when your time is done. I know the neighbor’s dog scares you, but you are brave near me. Expose your frailty and inner workings without shame. The sun is shining and it is spring and maybe someone you know is having a lovely post-mortem.
I do not like when girls have thin line scars on their arms and legs, but I forgive them of this non-crime and understand the urge to find something inside.
I always worry about knife play people. Goth girls with anime backpacks and plastic rabbit charms hiding milky skin with milkier makeup and black corpse paint.
They’re not common around here. Instead there are farmers with bronzed deep grooves, joggers with tans African Americans migrants with vans.
Skin lustrous and wonderful. Hairy or hairless freckled, saggy, smooth or sunburnt elegant vessels who use knives carefully and want to keep their insides in, abhorring violence and holding together.