trap.
01-31-2013, 07:44 PM
Universe:
A New York Minute
“Imagine a thousand more such daily intrusions in your life, every hour and minute of every day, and you can grasp the source of this paranoia, this anger that could consume me at any moment if I lost control.” - Jack Henry Abbott
......
12:12 a.m.
I look at the clock; it’s been so long since I left the office
Packed boxes, my last thought is that which the Boss said
“You’re fired, you lost it” Wrong, prick; I’m exhausted
Blow it out your tailpipe… quite ironic how I responded
As my mind wanders, a van pulls behind and stops dead
What next? I could only imagine; these eyes just saw red…
My pistol to his face, the Man tries to deny his own fate
I just go blank as the van’s driver side window breaks
Left arm raised, then his right hand reached in his pocket
Bullets rip off his head, falling to the street is his wallet
Money is not my object; I dash along the sidewalk, trip
Riotous as I literally ran into this Girl that I once “hit”
She stumbles backward, months pregnant with a punk kid
I pull a knife; shut my eyes, stabbing her in the stomach
From a distance away, some baby enfant screams in pain
A fading glimpse of a neon sign flashes, ‘Memory Lane’
I take 85th street; sprint through the dark to Central Park
Up twenty yards, a Punk walks his dog, the pit bull barks
Baring its teeth, it snarls, I approach and pet its smooth fur
The Punk clears his throat, “It’s not a damn petting zoo, sir”
“Your dog seems hungry” I mumble, as I draw the weapon
Quick cut to the pit bull ingesting the kid’s small intestine
It’s all relative; could’ve sworn I saw this punk once before
But of course our tug of war underscored the blood and gore
In a reflection of a corner store, on this crisp, clean night
Either the moon’s a teal-color or… it’s just a green light…
I blink twice; the night’s stars appear, a car horn blares
A van large in my mirror; I look back at my startled fare
A Punk declares, stern, “Why are we sitting here? Turn!”
The light’s green; a Man behind screams, flips me the bird
12:13; if yellow means, ‘better stop where you’re headed’
Guess it ought to mention… on second thought, forget it.
Mr. Manipulation no-shows.
A New York Minute
“Imagine a thousand more such daily intrusions in your life, every hour and minute of every day, and you can grasp the source of this paranoia, this anger that could consume me at any moment if I lost control.” - Jack Henry Abbott
......
12:12 a.m.
I look at the clock; it’s been so long since I left the office
Packed boxes, my last thought is that which the Boss said
“You’re fired, you lost it” Wrong, prick; I’m exhausted
Blow it out your tailpipe… quite ironic how I responded
As my mind wanders, a van pulls behind and stops dead
What next? I could only imagine; these eyes just saw red…
My pistol to his face, the Man tries to deny his own fate
I just go blank as the van’s driver side window breaks
Left arm raised, then his right hand reached in his pocket
Bullets rip off his head, falling to the street is his wallet
Money is not my object; I dash along the sidewalk, trip
Riotous as I literally ran into this Girl that I once “hit”
She stumbles backward, months pregnant with a punk kid
I pull a knife; shut my eyes, stabbing her in the stomach
From a distance away, some baby enfant screams in pain
A fading glimpse of a neon sign flashes, ‘Memory Lane’
I take 85th street; sprint through the dark to Central Park
Up twenty yards, a Punk walks his dog, the pit bull barks
Baring its teeth, it snarls, I approach and pet its smooth fur
The Punk clears his throat, “It’s not a damn petting zoo, sir”
“Your dog seems hungry” I mumble, as I draw the weapon
Quick cut to the pit bull ingesting the kid’s small intestine
It’s all relative; could’ve sworn I saw this punk once before
But of course our tug of war underscored the blood and gore
In a reflection of a corner store, on this crisp, clean night
Either the moon’s a teal-color or… it’s just a green light…
I blink twice; the night’s stars appear, a car horn blares
A van large in my mirror; I look back at my startled fare
A Punk declares, stern, “Why are we sitting here? Turn!”
The light’s green; a Man behind screams, flips me the bird
12:13; if yellow means, ‘better stop where you’re headed’
Guess it ought to mention… on second thought, forget it.
Mr. Manipulation no-shows.