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