My home is but a terror house
Filled with the restless, walking dead
So lost and insecure that I must guide them back to bed
Their eyes are burnt and skin is veined
As the red resin on the gate
And on the stairs
The child stares
Wondering why I stay up to drink so late

She watches smoke curl from the mouth of a plastic gun
Careful now, or the toilet will run
Like the blood trickling down your leg
She said something about a square peg
Or was it a round hole?
Doesn’t matter, my bedroom is dull
And my brain is served fried
Since my favorite actor has died

I have too many magazines and too little space
I love the look of weddings with lace
I am a lamb of summer, my father said
I used to build sandcastles on my bed
Washable school glue stains my dress
As I stand in the pews in my Sunday’s best

Our laughter was loud and our mouths gaped
Her mouth was full with wedding cake
Tumbling out, like white fluffy *****
I looked and saw he was sitting right on it
One night I woke up and was lying in sweat
Turned and saw a boy I’d never met
I grew up and found myself in the same position
Starring at a shelf with my Barbies lined up,
Wearing those colorful gowns, all Special Edition

The night reveals more than just the stars
And moons and worlds and Milky Way bars
For the dark matter as a backdrop to the cosmos
Will one day rip its space-time fleece
But when and where, you’ll never know

Stars are like flowers and warrant no rebirth
From the gaseous remnants light years from Earth
For accretion pulls me in like your nebula cries
At the event horizon of a black hole *****
That gladly consumes my coy little lies

Watch them all burn and fail, once fiery *****
And consummate a lifespan for no reason at all
Churning in a chaotic standstill of time
Those supernova dreams and aspirations
Ultimately useless, but in all ways, sublime

Why do they exist and makes them die?
From the quantum quarks to the red giant eyes
I am searching for answers in an ignorant space
On a planet revolving on separate realities
Revolving on a path with a polluted trace

We sit in circles round an astral plane
Without questioning logic and something to gain
But like a star’s supernova, I’m ready to burst
Return from space and find our sun mid-stellar explosion
Eager to stand up and feel it first

One sits on the left wearing a crown of gold
A young man caught in a decadent whirl
He was jus a boy when his father died
A terrified heir, to soon face a corrosive world

Another sits in the center wearing a crown of thorns
Bandages over his caustic burns
Fated by destiny to take the pain
Too young to fail and too old to learn

The last sits on the right wearing a crown of roses
With red ringed bee stings on her forehead
A banal beauty to be sacrificed
To some new prince’s marriage bed

For the sake of simplicity
She wore a clean cotton dress
That cost a fortune
For the sake of beauty
She replaced her face
And danced like a ballerina
To improve her grace

For the sake of efficiency
He took away their freedom
Unnecessary and unused
Coincidentally constantly abused
And for the father a hospital bed
On his way to work a tragedy hit
Only the President was found dead

For the sake of consistency
They never changed the school’s lesson plans
Although the textbooks were old
The pages were ripped and the school lunches cold
Knowledge doesn’t change but opinions do
So the kids are back home and they sit in the streets
Waiting for tanks to roll over, plaster them to the ground
Like wet paint and crafting glue

Cicadas, always hidden in the tree branches
But always found the next day, dead and grotesque
Hideous, bulging eyes and paper bag crunch of skin
Persistent hissing and disturbed at the close of summer
Lady of the morning and gentlemen of the night
I give you, the all knowing Insect Man
A sideshow oddity, with yellow skin and red eyes of rage
Without a bride to call his own and ashamed to speak
Always bites the hand that cleans his cage

Vibrant antebellum
In the city streets saturates the air
And pulls the attention of children
From the gutters everywhere

Aftermath, aftershock, after the end
Syndrome X inside a plastic cup
Bellicose cries from bleeding sores of media
Shrouded with burqa shadows as a necessary anesthesia

Where is the city and where is the state?
Invisible numbers counted with ink stained thumbs
Delicate piano sound, pale girl fingers
The scent of your fatigue still lingers

I’ve seen many beautiful things
One day, I’ll remember what they are
But for now their faces are stretched like plastic bags
Bound to tear at the bottom and eventually sag