Query of the distance
         before the lampshade
                 of luncacy
falls heavily upon
         your eyelids
                 with a thud
and a grip to kill a turtle
         as when he swims
                 unrelenting
in his own stagnant
         farm pond
                 of the soul
leaving no trace
         of the fecal depository
                 hidden deep below
the subconscious waters
         where none but he
                 all-knowing turtle
shall find it
                 until the fateful moment
         when it finally surfaces
                 and the undertow is overtowed
and you pull the trigger
         of your assault rifle
                 and spray so delicately
one almost misses your beauty
         among all the dying
                  panicked passers-by