ReadySetSlamandBLOWME

"Russian Roulette. It's a game- a friend of mine of lips, teeth, and
crooked lines," She said.
"It's a two set: a simile and a bullet. One you can wrap your head around,
and the other to go between your eyes."

I said, "I'm a paper poet, originally, but I don't mind shooting back Crank and
letting it flow."

She laughed and ate up sarcasm. "Good, because I like my stanzas as scattered as
a coke-fiend who just found his fix, and we're going to need all
this ammunition to move the crowd, like woah."

"It's fucking sick," I said. I was sweating for it, my words getting heavy.
"Like a creative, inspiration eatery. Just look- post card sized offerings of 'eat me!"

She knew I meant the score sheets, but we were hard on something and getting twitchy.
"Don't worry about the price, love, they're free for the taking.
Besides, we're getting back to the basics;
You vs Simile."

My fingers tapped, the excitement getting to me.
"Okay, hurry up. What are we betting? 'Cause we need to go."

"Casualties to Real Poetry," She sighed, casually handing me the load.
"Grammatics, critics, the audience and all that jazz notwithstanding-
something loose, and powerful, you know?"

"Lovely," I nodded, positioning my weapon carefully. "Just ready, set, slam and let it blow."
I pulled the trigger, forgoing all the possibilities, and B A N G!
There went my wit splattering the crowd, like woah.