Lift the switch and scrape
quarter inch nails to numbness
in the silence of a poncho-mountain afternoon.

Diving birds crash
onto the wet tin roof
their souls swim to the melody
of a thumping death cadence.

Black construction papered windows
with claw marks throughout
suggest that we've grown bored
of bloated suburban stillness.

Sit on your bike and smile
do the duck lip pose,
sweat in the tearful angst of farmiliarity
that composes your make-up.

Thirst the fuck
that seeps from the drainpipe
and brave this home,
she's made it to the roof!!

04/04/2011