murder = white out.

cancer = birth blouse.

mirror = perfect glass spouse.

oil = sex paint.

shower = water saint.

Death decodes the howls from our hands.

skull = noise nest.

TV = fuck test.

mirror = siamese gun kiss.

sugar = birth bait.

murder = loves fate.

death distills the camouflage from our dance.

death inverts the red from romance.

Death x-rays the angels of chance.

death; the anti mirror of infants.

Like a picture hiding beneath the digital Avalanche.

When cecilia's grave cracked like a dirt cacoon,

she pulled up a stool at the silhouette saloon.

The player piano mumbling crippled jigs,

black widows knitting victimless wigs.

When cecilia's throat slit like a second set of lips

she drooled braille bibles onto the brothel bed spread,

like an egg whose yoke defies child bearing hips.

Like a ghost who fears all of the deceased and dead.

(time eats the flesh and spits out the shadow like a useless wishbone.)

But that locket spinning around her neck,

whose hearth heats a dead valentine,

you know the phantom trail leads way to a muted grave.

Where is his voice now?

A dead tone in the flutter of drunken wings,

Where is his blushed cheek now,

A face unraveled in shadow, veiled in blind laughter.

Where are those sex ripened lips,

his kiss print still warm on several necks.

Where is love now?



murder = white out.

cancer = birth blouse.

mirror = perfect glass spouse.

oil = sex paint.

shower = water saint.

Death decodes the howls from our hands.

skull = noise nest.

TV = fuck test.

mirror = siamese gun kiss.

sugar = birth bait.

murder = loves fate.

death distills the camouflage from our dance.

death inverts t