Party like last time
when you woke up in pieces.

And your dad pulled up in his big truck
with a prayer
and a bullet.

We dragged you out in bags
and scattered you across the lawn,
roughly arranged you in the shape of a star.

We grabbed bats and hit the bags of guts
repeatedly until we coudn't see the sun through
the blood in our eyes.

I was lying in the yard that night
with holes in my stomace from your fathers'
shotgun,
laughing off my wounds
when I saw him come back to the spot where
we had sacficed his whore daughter.

He creeped up to the bags
pretending to weep,
and In my delusion I swear I saw
him dip his hand in a bag and lick his fingers.

09/23/2009

Posted on 09/23/2009
Copyright © 2025 Johnny Crimson