a murder of crows dies
on terms of words and burns
while i writhe
a worm
in a land of angel clones
buried in jellyfish and penguin bones
pummeled in a hail of breasts and stones
banging on stumps like drums
with drunken stumbling feet and tongues
whatever comes again and comes
cloth clubs with goth bugs and dead clowns
muffled up and swept under the rug
swordid swords boring holes in doors
and floors to gore the poor
and you wonder why i say that you're the one that i adore.
you shouldnt lose another life;
you only get one more.
i learned to love the gun and knife
my hand just broke
i write no more.