bullet_holes_in_black_leather otto pilate the turn of the engine starts the night and bright street lights shine down with their colour-robbing orange glow. roll down the window, feel the chill, light the cigarette and take a drag. every street runs into a dead-end somewhere or other. Mother, Father, Sister, Brother (Top of the World, Ma!) Which to look upon my sins and say they saw it coming? When to hide and when to move one-hundred-miles-and-running dream in shades of gunmetal, chrome, copper and blood. a rise, a fall, a shorter climb back up and a final descent they sing a song thast ends with a bang, not a whimper. 6the storyteller spins a tale of a caper, of a crime that ends with a lound, bloody exclamation point. film noir for future reference. 060103 ... birdmad (a tone poem for a sinister afternoon) 060103 what's it to you? who go blather from