Happiness is a gun that doesn't work.

Smoke.
Broken glass.
Paper on the floor.
Ignored.


The sillouettes move slowly.
In rythm.
Slowly still.

Ashes.
Strewn bottles.
Bulbs gone off.
Ignored.

Hands that meet fondly.
With feet
in sync.

Fondle her now
on the bottle you stand.
The ash on her face
you wipe with your hand.

She'l touch you softly
as you blow out the smoke.
The light has gone off now,
but the paper still shows

you and her standing
on a cold dark night.
He'l see the page tomorrow
of a night where he lost sight.

#2

She rubbed her hands. Rubbed them again. She turned back to see the rainbow behind her. Finally she was on the other side. They'd all told her that she'd never reach. She'd proved them wrong. She smiled slowly to herself. All that had been required was the knife. Who would have thought it woul have been this simple?

"You'll never find your pot of gold. Your fate does'nt allow it."

She smiled again and looked down. Her palms were beautiful now. Clear and beautiful. Those awful lines were there no more.

#1

Whats in a name, he asked. Enough for me to avoid it.