Blubber

Oh Blubber, what cha gonna do now? Take your gun and run through some one else's world and shoot it up?

I c the shapes inside your blood. Your circles and your stars, your boy time pranks and promises - the ones that never stick. Your crazy gold flecked reasons to b as quick as a trick and twice as funny with your smooth black hair and pants all the way from Mars. That's where the real men fly.

Your gonna have to run Blubber, and fast. The past is chasing u with legs of steal and hooves of a thoroughbred. It'll hunt u down and lay there like a stone of onyx and always horizontal and wide when your eyes r half closed. You'll have your arms wrapped round your future, your gun in your holster hanging to the right and there it will b, irritatingly bright and light and oh so heavy. U won't c it coming, but it will move into your future and sweep the fragments into a pile of gotcha gotcha na na na.

My advice? Squeeze your yellow tears to your toes where your soles will wash in their colour.

You're all out of rubber bullets Blubber.

You'd better run.