that grew into a leaf,
and bloomed on the backside
of his head-
his final thoughts were roses,
and the crown of thorns
that had circled round his door
before they plucked the buds from his skull
and buried him in the pricker bushes
-because the flowers are too dirty
to hold his contradiction
in the bosom of this rotten soil.
he died in the music of a soft suicide
where the razor gently kissed his lips
and his wrists
stared into the sky for prayer
-and under the headstone
his heart broke as he slipped
the silken silver
through the ill form of its dinner;
he swallowed the bumpers
and twisted steel
through a hollow dream sequence
that replayed on backside of the blade,
before it began to play-
he still chokes on sirens
before the headlights trickle down
his jagged face
-still remembering his first,
where the sunset on his forehead
and his fragile eyes
shattered on glass that proved to have
a thicker head then his.
his first,
where the scream ran
from the back of his head
to the swell of his lips
where the angel had forgot to kiss,
before it wrapped itself around his breath
.. it was his first death.
as his parents fell to their knees
he grew well on his feet,
in a coffin coughing on, support,
that threw the covers back over it’s lazy fucking head
to go back to sleep
after scribbling R.I.P. on the screens
that learned to double for a heart
with a bass line that could hardly
beat.
the airbags bloom
in a field of glass shards,
where twisted metal
grows from debris on the first day of spring,
and nature is mechanic tragedy
where jersey barriers
wear the blood stains like fresh fruit
as the bush in a massacre
that spilled it’s guts on Eden’s highway-
and prayers stumbled into the bone yard
sponsored by your local
internet provider-
along the cold steel
that doubles for a monorail
as the weekday starts.
the fiber optic cable
puke’s hopes and dreams at his feet,
as the news cast covers the story
with a funeral
live on TV.
his headstone is engraved
with his death date followed by “News Channel 8,”
and a microphone sent
to the homes of family and friends,
to catch their final words
of the dead.
.. and he dies again
-a suicide dive for the end,
where the eyes really tear
before the mourning has raised,
and the shoulders for a fallen family
aren’t connected to the back of an acronym!
so he tries to die;
enough to where he’s reached an afterlife
where touch isn’t lust,
and love isn’t digitally rebuffed
-rolling in his grave in disgust
to tighten the rope,
in hopes of finding a life where the feeling is
real.
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