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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Adult · #1616502
I remember the guitar, the gun, the dead man's hands and how they squeezed . . .
WHEN HE SQUEEZED
November 9, 2009

When he squeezed
the neck
it was chocolate
in his hand--
a bar of thick,
brown chocolate
in his meaty,
broad-fingered hand
and it would melt
dripping from his palm,
puddling in the air
sweet, sweet melodies
in my ear.

And when he squeezed
the metal
it was hot toast
in his hand--
a slice of dark,
friable toast
in his confused,
distraught hand
and it shattered
through his temple,
splattering all around
the grey red blood
on the ground.
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