Don’t understand deliberate hurt.
Can’t conceive of the calculation:
The clinical cut to dead centre;
The surgeon’s pinpoint precision;
The coup-de-grâce, graciously granted,
With all the blunt, high-impact benevolence
Of a snub-nosed shell,
From the barrel of a smoking phone-gun
At precisely 00.04 on 25.12.04.
Tomorrow’s fish ‘n’ chip wrappers will read:
“Just another Saturday night, drive-by texting”.
But I won’t be around to read it.
Don’t want to.
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