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Get to work. Get your kit together, sunbeam.
Your mouth must be cut - there's blood in your ice cream. Go to town. They're waiting for you downstream. Too bad. You were having such a nice dream, but dreaming is rarely, if ever at all, fruitful while you long for something as simple and brutal as gators versus zombies
 You spy a gap, but the crowd moves fast, cuts you off at the pass. Muzzles are flashed. Hoardes of Old Catton buses go past. You flake in the sun, you shrink in the blast of a snarl you can't stand; the feeling is mutual. And you long for something as simple and brutal as gators versus zombies versus nuns
There's always the money for one more privateer, always room for another broken ear. Though anyone who knows you knows you don't smoke here, you hotrock your face and get ash in your tear. The elements never come up to a total - you find that you long for it simple and brutal as gators versus zombies versus nuns, or Vicky tearing off someone's legs and arms
You still can't gather your hands round the crucible. You still aren't certain this method is suitable. You still only nibble the edge of the cuticle. You still aren't sure if you like the word, 'Beautiful'. And it seems pretty much anyone with a vote'll yearn and burn for anything senseless and brutal as gators versus zombies versus nuns versus amazons with guns
 When every dirty detail is devilishly crucial you can't help but want something savage and brutal as gators versus zombies in the Cajun swamps, nuns wading in with habits hoisted around their knees, single-breasted amazons with tazers and Vicky beating everyone to death with their own hewn limbs.
Jon Stone is a UEA graduate and, if reports are to be believe, a zombie, currently writing poetry for malt whisky and skulking about in Norwich. He's been published in The New Writer, Spiked and others, and his first book of poetry, 'I'll Show You Tyrants', is available through UKAPress.It includes, among other things, adventures in Africa, swifts, sourcery and Caligula.
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