The back up with
A crooked neck bent
Towards Hell
While his lips tightened sternly
as a Victorian urn.
His face barely recognizeable
ever since the penny-doppler showered
A wandering click
that skipped
no birds on his fence.
In a glass paned massacre, forever fossilized
between childhood bullies and prom-night feel-ups,
there was a consciousness that feigned
once a week, cockled in creationism and the Eucharist.
His passions -- clam shells flanked by the ripping tide.
His intellect -- a solitary warble amid organ blue notes.