Heads in red, skull to skull, boot-strap tendon snap, smell of dried blood.

I’ve got a dead tree rotting inside my backyard. From his wooden arms are perching Satan’s guard. Leaving hair on the pavement is his calling card. Blacktop as a griddle likes it cooked but not charred. Hearse back there beside my back door. Wonder what it’s there for?

Heads in red, skull to skull, boot-strap tendon snap, smell of dried blood.

Sending semaphore, semaphore now Janie, semaphore, semi. Semaphore, semaphore now Janie semaphore, semi.