The crows know your middle name
It's written in the ragdoll nun's veins
I, I see your face...always
Do it again...And I'll see you tomorrow
beneath the crumbling stone wall
where the piss and brine dance in lascivious secrecy,
clandestinely slithering through the backdoor of your illusory mind.
I, I see your face...always.
The syncopated rhythm of the ivory bones
keep time with your steps upon the frozen cheeks of your
old lovers.
Your tattered trench-coat runs its jagged
edges against the irriguous ground, licking
the bitter blades of grass as it passes by,
surreptitiously descending the hill which lies
between dripping thoughts and sandpaper skin.
You've got something to borrow
from the gaping fish's mouth
and the gnarled branches of
the oldest Oak tree
in the hollow banshee's garden.
The steel bucket laments against your white-knuckled grip;
your left hand sighs across the backs of opaque marionettes.
A warning shot is fired.
I, I see your face...always.
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