Thursday, July 09, 2009

chickens pecking a wounded chicken to death
make my tin roof a rain of bloody echoes
all night
I drape your dirty panties over my face to soothe
the noise in my ears
the beaks the clawed feet
the sheets are pink with our bloody sweat
the feathers float past our stainedglass windows
(we stole one of our walls from an old church)
chickens squawk in manic ecstasy
seeing the death they are making amongst themselves
you take pills to avoid a nervous breakdown
and listen to the government on TV
lecturing us about money
using their prettiest new face to sell us
the noise on the roof, and the face under your dirty panties
to itself again

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