murder = white out.   cancer = birth blouse.   mirror = perfect glass spouse.   oil = sex paint.   shower = water saint.   Death decodes the howls from our hands.   skull = noise nest.   TV = fuck test.   mirror = siamese gun kiss.   sugar = birth bait.   murder = loves fate.   death distills the camouflage from our dance.   death inverts the red from romance.   Death x-rays the angels of chance.   death; the anti mirror of infants.   Like a picture hiding beneath the digital Avalanche.   When cecilia's grave cracked like a dirt cacoon,   she pulled up a stool at the silhouette saloon.   The player piano mumbling crippled jigs,   black widows knitting victimless wigs.   When cecilia's throat slit like a second set of lips   she drooled braille bibles onto the brothel bed spread,   like an egg whose yoke defies child bearing hips.   Like a ghost who fears all of the deceased and dead.   (time eats the flesh and spits out the shadow like a useless wishbone.)   But that locket spinning around her neck,   whose hearth heats a dead valentine,   you know the phantom trail leads way to a muted grave.   Where is his voice now?   A dead tone in the flutter of drunken wings,   Where is his blushed cheek now,   A face unraveled in shadow, veiled in blind laughter.   Where are those sex ripened lips,   his kiss print still warm on several necks.   Where is love now?      murder = white out.   cancer = birth blouse.   mirror = perfect glass spouse.   oil = sex paint.   shower = water saint.   Death decodes the howls from our hands.   skull = noise nest.   TV = fuck test.   mirror = siamese gun kiss.   sugar = birth bait.   murder = loves fate.   death distills the camouflage from our dance.   death inverts the red from romance.   Death x-rays the angels of chance.   death; the anti mirror of infants.   Like a picture hiding beneath the digital Avalanche.