put me in a barrel
in the pouring rain
wipe that smile off your face
when you say my name.
keep your clouds to yourself
if you do that thang
with your gospel tonsils
on x-ray steam.
and prepare for the worst -
sort of pristine gloom.
but rebel in the dirt
of an ink blot moon.
your salmon skin
is so south of my veins
it's an arctic star
where the empty
remains.