Dear Dad, Here I lie, hands as cold as ammunition. Here I lie, mind heavy with experience, very heavy. I’m coming home. I know it seems crazy to doubt that, crazy to disbelieve orders, but something deep down inside is telling me I won’t get home. Dad, I’m bleeding. You should have heard the noise, I could hardly stand it. I must have been hit by something. Because I woke up in here. It’s starting to rain. I wish I could see you for a moment. Tell everyone I’m missing them, I wasn’t as big as I thought, but I tried. And I’m not ashamed that I’m crying. It’s getting dark, and I’m drowsy, a funny breenish darkness. No dad, I don’t think I’ll get home.

Lisa

In the red, often said, fuck the dead, fuck the dead. Gone to bed to rest his head, fuck the dead, fuck the dead. Makes me bleed, hear your greed, have no need, just play to speed. Fuck the dead, fuck the dead. Guitar solo. Pseudo tribal drum beat. Pelvic gymnastics for sex people.

Fuck the dead.
Fuck the dead.

Ray Moor