Cecilia and the Silhouette Saloon

Murder = White Out.
Cancer=Birth Blouse.
Mirror=Perfect Glass Spouse.
Oil=Sex Paint.
Shower=Water Saint.
Death Decodes the howls from our hands.
Skull=Noise Nest.
TV=Fuck Test.
Mirror=Siamese Gun Kiss.
Sugar=Birth Bait.
Murder=Loves Fate.
Death distills the camouflage from our dance.
Death inverts the red from romance.
Death x-rays the angels of chance.
Death; the anti mirror of infants.
Like a picture hiding beneath the digital Avalanche.
When Cecilia's grave cracked like a dirt cocoon,
she pulled up a stool at the silhouette saloon.
The player piano mumbling crippled jigs.
Black widows knitting victimless wigs.
When Cecilia's throat slit like a second set of lips
she drooled braille bibles onto the brothel bed spread.
like an egg whose yoke defies child bearing hips.
Like a ghost who fears all of the deceased and dead.
(Time eats the flesh and spits out the shadow like a useless wishbone.)
But that locket spinning around her neck,
whose hearth heats a dead valentine,
you know the phantom trail leads way to a muted grave.
Where is his voice now?=A dead tone in the flutter of drunken wings.
Where is his blushed cheek now=A face unraveled in shadow, veiled in blind laughter.
Where are those sex ripened lips=His kiss print still warm on several necks.
Where is love now?
Murder = White Out.
Cancer=Birth Blouse.
Mirror=Perfect Glass Spouse.
Oil=Sex Paint.
Shower=Water Saint.
Death Decodes the howls from our hands.
Skull=Noise Nest.
TV=Fuck Test.
Mirror=Siamese Gun Kiss.
Sugar=Birth Bait.
Murder=Loves Fate.
Death distills the camouflage from our dance.
Death inverts the red from romance.
Death x-rays the angels of chance.
Death; the anti mirror of infants.
Like a picture hiding beneath the digital Avalanche.