Cepretet

We are the punch-drunk. The obnoxious
ghosts that everybody wants, but no one
will admit to. Offer us a verse as reward
and we will eat its skin. Suck the bones

dry. Or simply steal it, and give it
as a gift to our young. Malicious,
but well-meaning. And we will mean
everything. A wasted syllable is a spilled

beer -- and we love our beer. Do not fuck
with our beer. For we will find your home.
We will find your secret place. We will burn it
to the pavement. Won't you use caution?

There is a fire where a wood shed used to be,
and I'm running low on diet soda. And John
gets nervous for my throat and organs, 'cos
they're not painted like a bicycle. He doesn't

want coughed up body on his rug -- Sarah
just cleaned the place and now she's napping.
He gives a good god damn, and knows I won't
smash in heads with bats or floor boards,

but I will bite out a tongue like a geek.
Chew and spit, blood as ink -- or maybe
a promise. To rely on. Like a good flying bird,
or a dusty basement hymn. From the ground

up comes the sound. And we know it's glorious.