Some die like the trees,
with splintered bones
and too many wool hats
to keep their dreams safe,
beneath a swollen sky
of broken glass stars
jingling like keys
in lint-lined pockets
[home to the artist
in black hole rags
painting murders
with virgin’s hair
across a scraped tar sky].
We are a broken people
with brand new eyes
and fondant tongues
to snap our own
pencil necks, with lead
jutting out
in all the wrong places.
Suicide notes and
undercooked fury seep
like a spilled bottle,
And baby doves
are slaughtered
and fed to the caveman
in the white stepvan
[He said he’ll
prize them back to life,
you’ll see].
Welcome to another day
in paradise.
