Fallout (6/28/04)
my eyes open to the softly falling
tears bled from flesh-white skies,
my gaze rises up above the
guardians of the sun
and my eyes plunge back through
my throbbing skull.
whisky fallout-
only cockroaches of thought remain
squirming through hallow walls.
by grace of blood
my feet hold me up,
but what structure could bear this soul?
what blood keeps it alive
when spirits devastate the mould?
the angel of life softly whispers in my soul,
fettered to the downtrodden,
the angel of death silently distances the whole,
the murder of the first begotten.
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