Tourniquets strapping solar systems of vein
like constellations to the shit black of gallow arms.
A whisper of an alm passed in starlight, by starlight,
through starlight. Bled clean at last.
Let sour in saucers, venom-tanks,
bird bathes of grape juice, vinelike incisions
chasing the bones to the floor.
Animals collect them, neath the rain
of our intoxication. The bartender makes
a joke, about swine.
I’m here again, it’s nine.
An enthusiastic hangman welcomes me home
where a trigger happy Judas climbs into my bed
and with him I watch the limelight tantrum
turn to a fever -
we can all catch
little pieces of junk strap
if only we open our hearts to the sky,
vertical.
Moderator: Edited for rating.
