Courting the Executioner
Bacchanalia born they plunge torches
In the river, and cigarette incense
Billows out of crozier lungs;
This religion draws no lines in which
The ends don’t touch.
I refuse to waste my dreams on sleep,
I plan Avalon beneath a fog of war.
Martyrs and mayhem!
The victors and the vanquished!
Boys and girls along the oaken bar;
Soft-spoken self-immolation; some burn,
Others are ashes in painted urns
Atop a skyscraper berm between a
Slaughterhouse and a stockyard.
This is the firing squad!
The volley from the arrayed line!
That finger on that glass of gin
Has squeezed a trigger like
A quaking monk his crucifix;
I held my own head by the hair
And threw it to the scaffold’s crowd.
I stepped in front of the popping guns;
I hoped they fired blanks;
I heard the knell the shells were keening,
So I knew they were not.
Hope is hard, but you don’t stop
Hoping until you start bleeding.
I bit the bullet and liked the taste
ok i think i enabled private notes, i think? i really like this one too 🙂
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ok for shiz i set notes to private so you can leave any bitch slaps or love notes without stalkers knowing. you’re going down at tennis tomorrow btw. and i really really like the last verse above!
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yep yep, you’re right. dance, check, scream, check, love, check, relax, working on it, i’m pretty intense, meh… lucky you 3 comments from me on 1 entry! i will see you tomorrow. peace out, dawg.
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i love what you decide to juxtapose.it’s like a soft monologue but inside there’s the scream.xo
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Yeah you’re right. Just need to stop being a psycho and let it be. Maybe I’ll take some drugs for that 🙂
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