he wore his scars on his sleeve, heart on his knee,
seams of straw barb guarded the song of his dreams
-she's more settled ashes than dead peddles reborn,
and her full metal jacket had the warmth of blackness
hatched in the fabric of metaphor that she wore;
god's tongues sterile, their prayers wont amuse a listen
as crucifixes twist at the bottom of a shotgun barrel.
I went for stars on quick leave and quickly knew a prism
as I tried to shoot a system that started to undo in millions
-and her soul leveled mattresses we hadn't had it in;
before we could even love threw dusk, a new oblivion
sifted the lust of sunsets and streamlined passages
I wrote inside of pupils full of sand and sea cries
beside the sunspots collapse where we had each died.
we kissed, and the sun loved the moon with bliss
born delay taken from a day when the love was true
enough to mistake for dead, below the lips of two
covered cities where our pity would soon eclipse;
we sit naked too ashamed to take in a glimpse,
with eyes shut and guts tied dry lips break the shade
in a race for climax at the line where finish hides away
and the sages shelter sex from the mimics on parade.
as the constellations thrust amongst rippling lungs
the lust splits a struggling membrane fifty ways
as dead weight erupts from under the snap of stripping suns
and the night cums along the splitting rungs of the milky way.
the sinners sick still have sex in black sequence,
winter chills and wax weekends beneath a splintered sill
-watching water fingers spill along the last evening
we live in this coffin coughing longer until the shivers kill;
black livers spill the liquor we lived in these glass pictures
framed by yawning daughters, dawning fathers by name
namely by daunting odds and the last of past splinters.
the desk blends in to the four walls of this Warhol:
a different distance, color, number and deception
of similar falls given different symptoms of depression,
as the clock melts against his breath the un-born calls
for the doctor to operate, come on and savior mortal-
take this cord and replace abortion with shotgun shells
to sell yourself short and literal poor an little girl for sale
-off to hell before the blast can sing a full chord,
as her dad sways in a noose made of umbilical cord.
.. his kicks tire of steps left for wishes on dead arms,
and rumors are blooming too quick for liars;
two dead stars from one misfire that hit its mark,
and marked the dawn of nightfall in the middle of march.
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