Revolver Head Poem by Georgi Todorov

Babe, sometimes I dream myself as a revolver head.
On my shoulders, instead of eyes and ears and hair, a gun cylinder. Instead of a nose - a barrel. Each cartridge nest, a room through which you can see a different world.

Room One is the Time Hall. Looking through it, everything, including me and you, looks so microscopic. So far away, so far ago. Infinite.

Room Two is the Anger Passage. There you can find me tonight. Please, don't look. The opposite of infinite. Terminal.

Room Three is the Ego Room. Inside this cartridge hole, a tiny mirror. Behind the mirror, a secret passage to every other room.

Room Four is the Compassion Room. I have never looked through it lately.

Room Five is the Secret Room. Don't look. Don't ask.

In Room Six I keep the perfect creation of my mind - You.

Babe, tonight I will rotate the revolver, blow a cartridge, destroy a room. Beware.