The stone moves with idol hands
sent servants best
pressed upon the tree
and impale what's left of divinity.

St. Peters' Gate is rusting fine
Slashing tongues twist and dagger
between the vines.
A ROTTING CORPSE IS AFTER ME!

Sweetly she slept
away above the city,
her hammock rocking gently
with the subtle breeze.

The raccoon's curiosity lands
his claws up her skirt
and mother nature becomes
mother whore.

Ship me back west
away from the shade
Fuck me 3 sheets, no 1 sheet to the wind
till I'm red.
Paint my eyes shut and true,
let me be your pale servant of the senses.

Do this for me,
my sweet, my everything.
And I just might let you borrow that pen you just asked for.

09/03/2009

Posted on 09/04/2009
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