I stole music. Fuck you recording industry. Know what else? I'm going to steal more tonight.
I'd especially want the good kind of jellies, not the ones I grew up that taste like sugar and wax but the new kinds that have sours. And not those Harry Potter jellies that taste like turds. Especially not those. If I want to taste a turd I'll roll my own, thank you.
But I'm not going to die. (Jesus assures me of this in a contract he wrote on cigarette papers and Jesus doesn't lie.)
I'd want to be posed with my finger out in a scolding position but a wry grin on my face which said, "I caught you doing that bad shit but I'm not mad. Your mother would be mad, but not your stuffed friend Ho."
I'd want to be housed in my house so my progeny can run around me in circles like some great waxen maypole and dance about me all the May long and then one day, when one of the small ones trips and knocks me over and smash I go onto the ground?
Well on that day is the day I planned for like that books by Isaac Asimov and all of my fragile skin vanishes like so much necrotic dust and on the floor in my place?
A million jelly beans like some cannibalistic pinata (can't find enyay) but not from Mexico because I have insurance and a job and pay taxes!
Then the kids run around eating jelly beans and even in death, I provide value.
Or maybe especially in death.
Or maybe only in death.
Know what else?
I wish meat really was murder cause I can see me in the prison yard and they say, "What you in for?"
And I look at them with a steel look and my blue eyes reflect the burning blasts of the sun and I look away and pause, just for a minute and then I look back and I take a puff of smoke from my cigarette cause why not smoke in prison and a grit my teeth like Dirty Hairy and I say...