Dripping weekend wrist marks
Dance in the happy rain
Booming base and bleeding
Let it rush down your face
Feel it trickle down your tights
It’ll all be over now.

I see a boy underneath the bin
He prays desperately to a deaf god
Looming over I can smell his despair
Rocking back and forth in holy existence
Your prayer won’t save you now little duckling
Say I to the rat
But on he chants, on and on to gods and clouds and demons
He names them all, one by one endlessly chanting his desperate canon
Where are your gods now?
Do they serve you a merciful end?
I ask as I slash his throat.

Tread lightly on shards of comfort
Outstretched blades of rust stab at welcomeness
Place your blade in your scabbard sword dancer
Swivel and point, smile and wave, and slice and suffer
Your hole pours red. Life gleefully leaves its husk.

Open your wings and fly high in the boundless infinite expanse of opportunity’s sky.
But not you. You’re bed-bound.