Murder=White Out.
Cancer=Birth Blouse.
Mirror=Perfect Glass Spouse.
Oil=Sex Paint.
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 camoflauge 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 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 traill 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?