No.12 - May 1998

Your shadow follows me like an oil smear on asphalt. I carry your shrunken head in a paper bag. No one mistakes it for wine. The factory label reads: "Do not cut threads between lips." You drooled forty-five books before Daddy Death decked you. Still, precautions must be taken because you took democracy too far. Now anyone with a spray can thinks he's a poet — just look at our streets. All contents herein are the copyright of their respective author or artist. No material may be copied without permission being given beforehand.