intravenously polite it was the walkie-talkies
|
that had knocked the pins down
|
as their shoes gripped the dirt floor
|
in the silhouette of dying
|
dancing on corpses' ashes
|
|
yeah, they had plans for him
|
they has spun the last of the pimps
|
polyester, satin nailed jewelry lips
|
while the guillotine just laughed again
|
dancing on the corpses' ashes
|
|
paramedics fell into the wound
|
like a rehired scab at a barehanded plant
|
an anesthetic penance beneath
|
the hail of contraband
|
|
they had been defected and excommunicated
|
and all the pulses were subverted
|
and they made sure the obituaries
|
showed pictures of smoke stacks
|
|
a vivid dissection that mocked
|
the strut of vivisection
|
semi-automatic colonies
|
and a silencing that still walks the streets
|
|
in the company of wolves
|
was a stretcher made of
|
cobblestone curfews
|
the federales performed
|
their custodial customs quite well
|
|
callous heels
|
numbed in travel
|
endless maps made
|
by their scalpels
|
|
on my way
|
nails broke and fell
|
into the
|
wishing well
|
|
-----------------
|
Invalid Litter Dept.
|
At The Drive-In |