The Story Of Death Poem by James McLain

It is a hot day and I hate their life.
Topless without looking at all the bimbos in the pool.
Irritation but not from that what you think,
the need to rearrange it bothers me constantly.
How bad it is.
I do it because I'm old, young they are blistering hot.

Sunday afternoon
and it's all I think about from my life that you can.
Exercise and some one elses money I never spent,
people Refuse to know, I should be.
I don't think i've spoken to anyone since Thursday morning
except for the girl selling magazines,
thinking she would go to Hawaii at my expense.

Friday morning I spoke to the milkman a woman
Appropriately, I started to play.
Little pink cars run around them both being bitten to often by him.

Loking down at the pool she is around him
and then aside it is moved the tight bikini bottom,
watching one hot smug girl, I saw her coming.
Through the cracks of death her, sweat, the chair, falls.
If she was not Around, I have something interesting right.
I look on gasping for breath several times
I fall climbing the steep stairs.

I have no bad habits, I know.
All the characters are worn out.
Each bag, new characters find themselves in, I think.
The characters tell you all that they need to know.
Kill, stab or spell her name backwards or if I'm going to do it now.
Will I finish her.
You can hear the buzzing insects outside.
Don't is the hope of killer bees.
It swelled in her throat and exploded, she died.
I am not getting any younger with all this death.
You need the rain to clear the air.
My face is twitching, I feel fresh cramps coming on.

I sigh deeply, lunging from the stairs the tea Kettle is whistling.
From start to finish, as long as it took to read all of this.
The time has arrived again.
The whistle it builds as the steam floats off the memories.
These are those times when I hate what I do in the C.I.A.