The giggling aching otherself
rising up in Celestine octaves
like a tidal wave
lifting through my lungs and brain.
The flesh of ruins
is easy to pierce and mark,
we make our own living pictures
upon the moving canvass
of virgin skin.
The only way to out run the past
is to remember,
to look back and know
where you've been.
The lambs of night
blow out the lights
of vigil candles
adorning forsaken alters,
I mourn the vanishing flame
by virtue of the inevitable dark.
A stranger among fine faces
in the emperors robes
goes privately parading
down Sunset Boulevard.
It is not the love songs sinking
into the magma of
the fabled tell-tale heart.
