like bloated roadkill with its arms stretched towards God.

pulled from the scrap heap
by his doe-eyed angel
the tired child forgets to weep
for lost loves and souls
and soles worn thin
and puts his feet back down
beneath him

the list of things he'd give is growing

he blew out the candle after her she'd left and
the moth floating in the melted wax
telling the tale of coming too close
was no longer relevant--
now they are the Flame, together

morally straight
anatomically incorrect
she says his neck smells
like jungle when it sweats
and her sweet stench is his opiate

the smell of money is common, but
who else would notice the scent
of fresh ink on receipts?
don't bother keeping that one from April--
there's a No Return policy

Do Not Resuscitate stamped on his forehead
this was all planned before Time began

just pinch him and hope for the best
and in the meantime

niece and nephew, keep training her well

and he slept soundly
like bloated roadkill
with its arms stretched towards God.




Currently reading:
"Naked Lunch" by William Burroughs.