Tuesday, April 21, 2009

The Lodge

Taken all the way down
The stars are bright stones on black sand
Every tear’s a darkening fuck you
Beneath a pig mounted on a wall
Whose lips speak of terror.
I see your face like a childhood dream
Twisted in ecstasy
Men now flock to you like vultures to a carcass
And I wonder, where do dreams go to die, and
Does it ever feel good to let them go.
A funeral wreath can be worn as a laurel,
So spit on all the poor sots down below
Count your blessings with your drinks
And be thankful for talkative friends;
Because everything’s the reproduction of some antique
Made with new materials.

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