The Internal Dying of Benjamin Tippett

No Maria - when a Bernstein motif lingers. No rosary beads - they'll simply slip through bourbon-stained fingers. God carved the seven continents, with skillful guise, and Puccini cries. Adam's rib was imminent when his chest burst splinters into a scorned dodger's eyes. No Turandot tonight, please - Father willed him this disease; a cancerous curse Ben's learned to despise. No Rodgers - when Oscar Hammerstein is dead. No hammered halos - they'll merely desecrate the madman’s head. Ben abandoned rued religion, with toxic breath - as Mimi wept. Noah made a revision, as the pairs filed two by two, and into his mouth they crept. No La Boheme, does he dote - Mother’s cocktail glass cuts his throat. A souvenir, from his childhood, he’s kept. No Sondheim - when one loathes another's company. No steel wool ragcloths - to dry the bloodshot eyes of thee. He minded the duet’s jargon endorsing the macabre, and Calaf sobbed. Judas rethought the bargain, knowing the silver pieces wouldn’t save the soul he robbed. A lost weekend sates Ben's day - two severed hands on his chest, he’ll lay; never feeling a heart that once throbbed.