The poetry of Quentin Tarantino: "Kill Bill"
I won’t go hew hiss larvae
ticked me off knocking on the mountain laugh
out of context
not a real god
wearing his decomposition
I left school right then.
no amount of air will get the smell of her
out of my nose,
the soot of her out of my eyes
its wise minority? Why does it cry and resist before it is hurt?
Why does it not encourage its citizens to be on the alert to point
out its faults, and do better than it would have them? Why
does it always crucify Christ, and ex-communicate Copernicus
and Luther, and pronounce Washington and Franklin rebels?
my modus operandi:
two dogs in a bathtub
pulling Santa Claus out of the North pole
their inflatable play set
nation building in contemptuous terms
multi-dimensional knowledge
Down a dusty road lives
Adran Ayad Naif, 35, known in
the village for having suffered
the worst loss. His wife, Nawar,
was killed three months ago
when she stepped on a bomb
while working in the small field
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