Watching the Body Decompose

Watching the Body Decompose

you are exhumed
your hair is long
nails twisted
inhale and exhale
like the black dog
you speak for the devil
we kneel upon your evil
your grace is a broken vessel
no wait, no quarter
the milk spilt upon the floor
it pools into a haphazard design
a lack of intelligence
there is nothing among us
we walk in our tragedy
our heads bowed down
tails dragging in the dirt
I have eaten you
like the dead
you were my enemy
your head upon a pole
the garish details
my capital, my atrocities
my wounds fester with love
under cruel hardship
crafted with my own hand

© Deep Piercing Cut 2009

Practicing Throwing Ninja Stars

Practicing Throwing Ninja Stars

I have scattered the fragments
in these desolate streets
these streets with unfeeling hearts
they pull on me like little children
I know all their names
call them one by one
as they sit at my feet
each playful laugh
is a treasure
the spirits move
in such strange ways
I know their motions
are only reflections
but, I marvel
at them anyway
finding my love sign
in a juke joint on Venus
she squawking on the harmonica
fresh from the blues festival
she’s a blowing
man alive
she sends shivers
down my spine
my pathetic spine
the devil is a creeping

this is the music we were waiting for
we listen intently to the piper
he played that unfortunate song
the one we learned in Sunday school
throwing the notes into the wind
it was almost human
in our fight for desire
to give it arms and legs
and a mind to betray
almost human
spilling out with abandon
out from all sides
in its sickness
suffocating
rising up into wave after wave
there is no golden treasure
with the sheet wrapped around you
we lie down into the sound
a curse that talks
and keeps talking
while the audience cries
death rides on
all the way to the coast
under the surface is a dreadful taste
something that makes you look
behind you all the way
arms stretched out
as a fume
and we shout
against the bastard
his boots do not sail
on these troubled waters

I found yesterday
hiding behind the sofa
it might have been hide-and-seek
no one was in the fields
as the fire scorched the crosses
without scarecrows
the seeds are small
scarred as they are
they lack water
buried deep with your alabaster cares
you shout, “get back into the fields”
no work is getting done
no stone is being turned
they watch us build the boxes
all have been measured
washing off the blood
before we put them away

© Deep Piercing Cut 2009