Factory Heart

A divine blacksmith didn't forge winged hearts of gold, to soothe the burn of others. Nor mold my body into a scratching post chant. Where others can shed their dying dream ghosts. I was conceived from the sable fingertips of Dali. flint hearted with a sheen of midnight black matches. Straddling devil's dunes, in an upside-down desert... My heart wields a wicked chain, has selfish yellow teeth. It billows like an old factory, discharging microscopic monsters, easter island heads the bones of carbon and oxygen a pure oasis of death... Ride these ragged flanks eat the melting clock roll the chipped toothed dice. Turned from flower to flamed out rock... If you want.