Cecilia and the Silhouette Saloon

Murder = white out. Cancer = birth blouse. Mirror = perfect glass spouse. Oil = sex paint. Shower = water saint. Death decodes the howls from our hands. Skull = noise nest. TV = fuck test. Mirror = siamese gun kiss. Sugar = birth bait. Murder = loves fate. Death distills the camouflage from our dance. Death inverts the red from romance. Death x-rays the angels of chance. Death; the anti mirror of infants. Like a picture hiding beneath the digital Avalanche. When cecilia's grave cracked like a dirt cacoon, She pulled up a stool at the silhouette saloon. The player piano mumbling crippled jigs, Black widows knitting victimless wigs. When cecilia's throat slit like a second set of lips She drooled braille bibles onto the brothel bed spread, Like an egg whose yoke defies child bearing hips. Like a ghost who fears all of the deceased and dead. (Time eats the flesh and spits out the shadow like a useless wishbone.) But that locket spinning around her neck, Whose hearth heats a dead valentine, You know the phantom trail leads way to a muted grave. Where is his voice now? A dead tone in the flutter of drunken wings, Where is his blushed cheek now, A face unraveled in shadow, veiled in blind laughter. Where are those sex ripened lips, His kiss print still warm on several necks. Where is love now? Murder = white out. Cancer = birth blouse. Mirror = perfect glass spouse. Oil = sex paint. Shower = water saint. Death decodes the howls from our hands. Skull = noise nest. TV = fuck test. Mirror = siamese gun kiss. Sugar = birth bait. Murder = loves fate. Death distills the camouflage from our dance. Death inverts the red from romance. Death x-rays the angels of chance. Death; the anti mirror of infants. Like a picture hiding beneath the digital Avalanche.