star at the stars
long for the girl who talks of those things.
To others
always others,
never you.
She moves her lips, fine things lined and colored.
Cupids bow bent
not for love,
but death.
And the words, you hear them
hell, how could you not
fine voice, for after midnight
a bedroom tone.
So syllable after syllable, line after line
convey to your ears
the pain and pleasure of living life.
Alone, with another.
But do you hear her, what words she does not say?
The game she does not attempt
or the path she cannot ask of you?
Two realms of spirit, two ways to see
the same crown the same sky the same hate of the world
one cannot rest, the other never sleeps
yet the two worlds linked by bloodshed
linked in the disasters made by the heart
by the flesh.
mingled in the late September air.
Finality was coming, a train shooting through the night
East to West.
Heart to heart.
And someone was tied to the tracks.
Jasmine and Lilies and the ever blooming rose.
a white, like the hope that withers and falls
when words are spoken and hearts laid open
and still parting is never an option.
Blown pistons.
Blown pistons!
Drive it into the ground.
There might be a gas station,
just up ahead.
The friendly glow of halide and florescent and neon,
lovely neon.
With a hand painted sign there in the gravel,
'Mechanic on duty, cheep'
Very cheep.
Cause this car is busted, broken and diseased
and there's only fifty bucks between them as they sit in the front seat
dead flowers in the back and a cracked mirror on the side.