In a narrow lit base of junkshop diamonds
We are lounge singers living off desperation’s tips.
Painting portraits of disjointed families
inside these liquor lock tombs
A sequel of sorts, to my biopic
Cradling, items of wounds.
And in my medicine mind drawer
Sins do Claw
However, the ghouls that float
Hold so I don't see my flaws
The size of a finger palm foreigner
The pulsing of nonlinear thoughts
This Head against the linoleum floor.
Church bells chime.
True sunday world light - she’s a tinge of failure
High above the steps my eyes flicker upward
Hidding on a hill, her eyes flicker downward
a religious feel
Moving my prize forward
cutting waist water scars
Of drunken cash paying fools
Proped up and winning
She’s my dying,