(A soft procession of endless hymns. Swallowing bullets like sleeping pills). . Across the floor of an ancient room. It was not God, it was not the moon.
Hush now, close your eyes. Open your mouth, swallow lies. . Hush now, close your eyes. Open your mouth, swallow, swallow lies. . Moth breath fluttering.
Not to touch the earth. Not to see the sun. Nothing left to do, but. Run, run, run. Let's run. Let's run. . House upon the hill. Moon is lying still. Shadows of the trees.
Loud and proud. Loud and proud. . Alone, in the crowd. . Sometimes I feel more dead than alive. Sometimes I feel I can do it this time. Sometimes I feel so empty inside.
Lock and load. Kill em all. Let the lord. Sort em out. . Fortifying lies for the Triggerman. A honey-tongued devil do as she commands. Psychotic! So patriotic!.
There are nights, so vacant and hushed, I can feel the texture of my tattered soul moving within me. Black tar, dripping, sticky and thick. A soft, slow secretion of indifference slopping through the hollow suit I use as a body..
The soft sound of snow crunching underfoot gives me comfort. Her building is at the end of the block. She lives on the north side. Bottom floor. Middle apartment. I see her. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 steps. Wrong key. Lock clicks. She drops her coat and scarf in the entry and kicks off those... vixen shoes. She shuffles to the kitchen and pours a glass of scotch. (I am inside) She lights a cigarette and blows the smoke over the match. (She doesn't notice).
Godless. Lawless. Stifled. Bondage. . The grubs are fastened. In sackcloth and ashes. We are the children. Of amnesia of heaven. . Their cries go unrequited.