Beneath the swan-serene surface, And the post injection smile, Of Tarantino’s Vincent, Slow bubbles the fearful id. The slightest scratch width away From starkest exposure to Their unsympathetic stare, It dangerously simmers In a cauldron of terror.
Behind aviator shades, Windows to the quaking soul Are now safely camouflaged From the glare of searchlight arcs. The shabby security Of invisibility, In head-hid ostrich style, Can sufficiently empower For daily trivial quests.