I want to be an angel
with wings made of gun
I want to be a bulldog
with teeth like a gun
I want to be a flower
that grows in the gun
I want to go to heaven
when my time is gun
I want to be a gun
that shoots all the angels
I want to be a gun
that sends you to hell
I want to be a gun
with big ol’ truck tires
I want to be a gun
at the flea market sale
If I had a bulldog
his name would be gun
If I had a bulldog
he’d bite like a gun
If I had a bulldog
I’d love him forever
I’d never forsake him
by using my gun
I’d use my poor gun
to protect my poor bulldog
I’d tell all the demons
to go back to hell
we wouldn’t need angels
because I had my gun
you won’t go to heaven
when I use my gun
— Graham Irvin lives in Philadelphia. Some of his writing has been in Joyland, The Nervous Breakdown, and Misery Tourism. His book Liver Mush was published by Back Patio Press.