"Look at the Hell I made!"
He says to you, wedding eve, with his
slight smirk that strips your judgment and clothes.
Ovens are off, and petrified pillows laze.
Sandy sun, muffled by drapes glazed.
Burning kitten's corpses, assortments of flies crawl
under broken boards, lovely little curios.
Their legs are broken.
Cardboard wood, brush by the fences.
It's a construction zone, broken "no-smoking" sign.
Build a porch for the friends to have a little drink.
Tonight, we'll have fun under the fireworks moon.
The fireworks will just be dust.
Romance and whiskey, "it's a novel we're working."
Toys lie chaotically, dots of food stains.
Air rotates in the ambiance.
The bookcase loves unmentionables.
The twenties flapped a bit more
than those birds in the sky.
Ink laden wings, and tar for eyeholes.
You didn't notice the vacancy signs on their eyes.
You didn't scent morning sighs,
just moonlight breath.
At dinner the silverware sweats a mad reverb.
It was hard of hearing.
Pills on plates and booze in blankets.
There's no innocence left in the damn house.
You just might not animate.
Tattoo bruises from toy machine capsules.
That's what he gave her.
Why did the video game echo pause?
The radio spat out Aerosmith.
Daddy's a glassmaker.
Mommy is glass,
with porcelain lips and tiny black X's.
She's worth more than china.
Mommy is glass.
She's scattered on the carpet.
"Two for you, two for you, one for you."