Let's sling our rain slicks over
February's fantastic antlers
sprouting from the foreheads of
world famous necromancers
The winter's looming like a
bloodthirsty bird of prey
And I guarantee by spring we'll
either be world famous or
goddamned dead.
Guitar one fastens languid years to
busty bones like dust and skin on a
dull antique moon.
Guitar two's touch keeps ruining
lovers for other lovers like jokers
concealed in trick decks in our laps.
There's a train tumbling down torn
paper tracks while weeds blossom
from heartbeats that lack.
Guitar three's dancing even though
her song ended ages and
ages ago.
She's at an empty dance club
suspended in the middle of a
rambling sentence.
Guitar four says, "If you still
believe in the grace of man, let me
introduce you to greedy, greedy,
greedy hands."
Let's sling our rain slicks over every
single second to the rapture
dripping from clocks ticking all our
misadventures.
The winter left town with some
seventeen-year-old waitress.
And spring's laying in a pile of all
moments of our misadventure.