Arrest that teardrop sneaking out of yon plaintive tune
No silvery spittle shall desecrate my rest!
Hush that verse, plotting against my heart
I need to sleep. Pickle the damned dawn!
Anaesthetize the morning, pimping his bedraggled sun
Pre-determined angles, pre-meditated spin,
Besmirching the blue sky with her pink blushes -
Stale, pale. The whore’s hungry for my blood!
She wants her high noon. Peroxide blonde.
To loosen her flaxen braids, shed her specious light,
Inveigle fevered couplets, spat through the hot air
And mesmerized notes, climaxing in her flame
But her gleaming blades will, in a fell swoop, descend
On the wine red evening, for a bloody repast
In the darkness, ere she licks her rosy-fingered dawn!
Yeah, night must come. May I have it now?
Switch off the arc-lights, plunder her gold!
Quote your price, friend. She’s all yours.
Oh, sweet bells preface the fading light. The Word beckons!
Psstt…Is she still around, by any chance?
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