Prayer for the Dead (Memories)
They're hiding in pick-up trucks,
lurking in hallways,
down at the edge of the road.
The Garden of Gethsemane
drips it's blood through the Ages.
Uterus blood and my head
on the lap of a blonde.
I can hear the Allman Brothers
and smell sweet hashish
from an outdoor stage.
Rip the pages from the family Bible
and get in bed with a pillar of salt!
It's all there on this road called
Pharmaceutical sleep helps the night
seem less harsh.
Your eyes(paper or plastic?)
watch me slumber,
and drip like a gutter
filled with failing memories.
tom killeen contact at Duke22127@aol.com