Mouths open, Angel's back with friends.
A chorus of the celestial,
Wings tucked, halos blazing.
(Deaf, and you'd swear they're screaming)
Melody simple, beautiful, and toxic,
Blasting insanity back this way:
"They can't take that away from me."
Cheap Whiskey is still angry,
Writing about your arms, and your eyes.
Stuck in the rhythm of the Jazz Insatiable.
Voices, in harmony,
On the way to death's cousin
The "not - quiet - enough"
It feels nothing short of genius loving you.
Any notions, thought in such volume,
With such swiftness, should be going
Somewhere important, or to some
Great End.
Yet, all imagined here, stuck, throwing, with my own lungs.
Rings of smoke, and
Red sound.
The Lines draw themselves,
If the dirt leaves a history,
If the wings help them fly,
If her car's still ******* running,
If the knife slipped a different way,
And the blood didn't stain.
But what should I do when the voices get louder?
When it's all I can do, to give each
Frequency its face, how do I put her
Back in focus?
Humming, and a hot mind,
My teeth break,
And I sing back.
Difficult deciding that you'll
Never be so sure,
If you faked it so she'd want you,
Or if you faked it for that smile.
Wings, splayed out across
My open torso, begging for a story,
Maroon eyes, that tell furious truth.
(There is something to be said for my future.
I'd hope it would be: The city I
Resolve myself in, might rise and
Fall with the air in
My chest. We might inhale,
Together, the streetlight dreams,
Before choking on stale air,
And hurling, in unison.)
Clotted outside, rushing throughout,
Stains don't bleed. But the scars do
Leave marks. The Lines
Draw themselves.
Despite my best efforts to
Stop them.
The Lines get their name, despite showing up incessantly.
The sequel to "Angel." The continuation of the suicidal struggle.
