We've sat here before,
misplaced beside the evening fire.
Our intentions sideways,
skewed by the fear of drowning
in the prison cell lakes.

Leave me Kryuss and Serpico,
and the rest of you can die,
misspelled in the moonlight
may your sins sink you to dust.

We speak the demons name
in private circles,
holding her sickness in our throats
till the silence allows it's release.

Wafting through this blanket of disease
that is the air we breathe,
I make my way towards your corner,
with hands protecting my face.

Wood split with lashes
from a split-tongued mare,
the splinters now beg
of my body to bleed.

Resting atop the only
hill in the lowlands,
she slithers and hisses
with her eyes in the dirt.

Give me a clean break,
a snap with no concussion.
Make this transition to hell,
something I can forget in the morning.

I gave her the 80 bucks and asked
what that'll get me.

10/20/2010