A footprint on lips where the sunlight should skip to show scarless and well preserved faces;
Hair slicked back with grease and skin flushed with disease, we will show that we all know our places.
Until stomachs howling and instincts all growling we head to the places we eat:
Heads will roll into gutters as we say grace and mutter and chew on our mystery meat.
We hang from the gallows and drip into shallow small pools that lie beneath our meathooks;
We smile and we grin as spit dribbles down chins as we wait and set ovens to precook.
We’re false advertisers, we bare our incisors, and prepare a dinner for two;
A three out of five if we’re still left alive, you should know that I still don’t love you.
A boot in the place where your beautiful face spills its teeth and pink slime on the curb;
I don’t care if I bleed, ’cause the one thing I need is the kind of rest you can’t disturb.
Our rouge like a bruise, sidelined eyes black and blue, snide lines screamed and then nicely rephrased:
Unhinged Venus flytraps, rafflesia wineglasses, hundreds of wilted bouquets!
We laugh like gunfire, we sink in the mire of sickening, black-and-white lies;
My head on your shoulder, your teeth at my throat as we gaze with our front facing eyes.
We circle like vultures, we stink of foul sulfur, we pretend to not see ourselves;
I think we expired the day we were born, but we keep ourselves up on the shelves.