Cecilia and the Silhouette Saloon

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 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.