CRASH!
my
BASH!
it's
BANG!
the
ZANG!
Fourth
WHOOSH!
of
BAROOOM!
July
WHEW!
-the fourth, by shel silvestein
everything could come out in a firecracker. the blue and red both blood, bursting from the vein where cut with a loud cracksnap- a noise to break your bones, set your hair on fire. the same sliced vein, letting loose in its own holiday, so special and naked, bleeding out on the beach in long toned limbs and tanned ass, the white globes of breast bouncing, bouncing, bouncing past dead! done! dying! inside the sleek cunting where a bitch is a survivor, and i am a bitch, mother bitch, welping and breeding and nursing my young, bleeding sparklers from my thighs, where pretty young writer girls go to die, the graves of suburbia, just littered with the dust of fourth of july.
-the fourth, by maggie may ethridge
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