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Puppet, Meet Puppeteer.
An earth of ears still waiting, screaming at the sight:
of seven broken bones, one for every night
of masochistic thought and dreary contemplation-
of caricatures that block this shrieking invocation.
But the others blankly stare, and certainty remains
in spike and cliché gore; in silence of the slain.
her mouth unbolts to sing, the beguiling smile rises
clawing out of dirt and death; tearing through neurosis.
Swivel heads, engorged lips, the fringes of insane:
distortion of the strident mouths- Pretext signs her name;
the dotted line, a bruis-ed pen, scrawl of broken finger
estranged from her own hands, these nameless suit this paper.
Puppet, meet puppeteer. puppeteer, meet puppet.
Strangled by the strings on the stage of grave regret.
Her blood is your romance.
Her blood is your romance.
I gave her a voice. I gave her a soul.
Her scored flesh is set to interlock,
The heavens reside in her lungs.
This beautiful convulsion girl, caught in aging drought
finds her soul uplifted when He lifts her out
of improperly patched curves; these vibrating graves
of this crimson addiction of Psychosis slaves.
Psychosis slaves.
The heavens reside in her lungs.
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