The stinking road to Golgotha

A pack of smokes lying open like a mute's jaw under the antique lamp
a morning hour reprieve from the battle of mourning

The piano is still sleeping
as a dream lays curled up in a black ball
at the lower lip of the fireplace...

it's quite a world outside, all the those unanswered wishes in the forms of eyelashes
blown away from puckered hopeful lips...more sunken ships than come true wishes...

bent over in this dim antique light
being nither here nor there
old photographs tucked away like children in a four poster black and white bed
tucked away in some shoebox heaven
with rats making plans behind the walls

These antique mornings
smell of coffee cans, coca cola bottles, empty motorcycle petrol tanks...and old Saturday morning cartoons
the buck knife on the breakfast nook is bloodless
violence is what other people do when they've forgotten to go for a swim
better to wrap your bones in the fur of night
instead of the frost of penitentiary blues

little ideas sometimes get born in the early morning hours
outside, there are motors turning over...and somewhere
white knuckles grab that morning steering wheel heading off for
a very bitter divorce...driving fast they will pass the swimming hole where the ghost
of dead summer children still hold sway in their play...

the coffee is black
the dim light is antique
a few more minutes, please lord
until the monsters roar
into the
race

and i have
to bare
my

fangs to it

all bloody over once

again.