28 Cracks In the Ceiling

28 Cracks In The Ceiling I take my red-inked dagger in hand And succinctly spew its secrets for all to see. 28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count. There’s a storm moving out of the west. I can smell the thunder and The titillating turbulence of tintinnabulation. An old lady sits cross-legged and knitting, Waiting for the sweating sun to sink. “I was just a girl in 1925… and now…” The endless strained faces out there Tell stories of death, disease and depravity. They know the eternal worm is the other one In this passion triangle. 28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count. Snakes frothing in suburbia. The megabytes of Zanzibar jettison out naked bone chips. Later months and trivial dimes. Smokestack realizations in a tent. Church buttresses holding up my whining soul. Green Edsels down in San Pedro. Michelobs and round sassy broads fingering erect nipples. With a Susie in each arm He lights a cigarette in honor of grand appeasement. Sensuous sinews entwine effervescently. More loose chicks in short skirts, Pouting and scamming. Times are hot in the old town tonight. Music and misery, wine and wickedness. Stubborn clocks disarm with water-resistant influx. I was a princox in petticoats. We met at a Tastee Freez at twilight. 28 cracks in the ceiling, and I lost count.