Tides of milky red
Ooze out of my porous phone
And through the aged toshiba pixels in my home
And from the cracks in my works walls
And out the small pimples on my pale dome
Tides of milky red fly
Out of the mouths of bearded babies that get hard from the sounds of their own voices
Tides of milky red drip
from the stupid spittle of blonde toupeed gargoyles that are making big choices
Tides of milky red shower
the barren parking lots of night
Wetting and reddening the broken needles
Painting the crushed cigarette butts
Washing the matted hair of beaten down bugged out tattooed skinny white girls screaming in the silent dark While coming down the concrete catwalk to elope with themselves in a confused 2 am isolation horror show
Take us all straight to Frank Sinatra Drive
Jive right quick a gasoline Conga line up I 95
Where the skies are white and the wind blows cold through distant mountains old
Where sages whisper empathetic truths into the waning western light