Halo of The Killing Chair

I told them, but no one pressed me for details

so now they must eviscerate a lily white dove

and read it’s torn out entrails

to find what the sacred word might have been.

Summertime is a war you cannot win.

The poison in a plain tin cup, the Grail of Christ,

lost in the back of a Romanian cab on New Years Day,

the blood turned bitter in the biggest, most egotistical heist

that turned halo’s into the collar of the killing chair.

To speak her name, I don’t dare.

Nightmares give comfort by telling my heart it works and is broken.

The wings that drip blood never mind the angelic frost on a little girl’s window,

on a crooked street, on the most perfect winter morn, in a slum in Hoboken.

Cigarettes are mother’s demarking of days into nights into weeks

and even The Devil trembles with fear, when her slurred mouth speaks.

 

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