Severing broken limbs 'nto phantoms
orphans delayed amongst the roster's names
of some rained-out parade
marks our Sabbath.
In smooth, dull procession
I am tongue-tied to the flagstaff,
I am worn out-kneed in a confessional
and I am whispering laments from the pulpit
of this empty house and market,

"We are on sale to the soul-brigade.

We are wretched and torn at the hem."

These are the marks that I am lending.
"Those are the cons of handsome men
who stole our harps
who played our heartstrings
who won't return again.
Whilst we settle on forgetting
how we've sprung armied orphans
against the better men
against the ones that kept the caring

and we mocked their virtue by our silence
and we stabbed their intellects like steaks
and we tore their hearts but let them play-act.

We are a bitter breed of girl to turn
upon the ashes of the ones whom we adore
to wallow in a second's worth of satisfaction."
I beg at the altar of fair and unfair
of that time before the affair

and I pursue my lobotomy
and I knock at my metal plate
and I hear the echo in my cavities
and I wonder whence the sound-space came

though a part of me remembers
through the scents I can't forget.

The burden is but punishment enough.

01/08/2007

Author's Note: taking some suggestions from the comments. see? comments do a body good.

Posted on 01/08/2007
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