shatter.

it is the killing time.

the time for lungs to be lacerated with poison gas, the time of night and deadly kisses.

it is the time, i think, to sleep with authority as an impending marriage with death moves closer.

somewhere a bullet flies through the air to shatter the glass

and the wine spills out as if to denounce me.

there is so much blood in insignificant men.

it is the killing time.

the time to walk the streets in disguise and fantasy, to inhale midnight smoke to stave off the pangs of one long lost, the time to judge without authority.

it is the time, i think, to lie elegantly with wine-wet lips, as your eyes swirl black mists in my brain.

somewhere a bullet flies through the air to shatter the glass

and the wine spills out as if to embrace me.

there is so much emotion in insignificant men.

it is the killing time.

the time to speak without listening, to suppress and be suppressed, the time of pretty clever treasons, to conceal without restraint.

it is the time, i think, to hide my soul under layers of night, as a strange man whispers poisons in my ear.

somewhere a bullet flies through the air to shatter the glass

and the wine spills out as if to release me.

there is so much pain for insignificant men.

*Dedicated to Joanna Xiao.