Blooded Verse and Sickness
We were all quiet... and waiting.
The bell tolled three times before we hid in gentle breaking dawn.
I hoped I was water proof.
In the night, the wind whispers the quiet song of the indian shaman
Lunging with blooded pain, and powerful sickness.
We were all his concubines.
The world came crashing down against us, with a murderous rage.
The power crawled along our skins in a glorious shudder and tingle,
A sensous dance that you wanted to fuck on the dining room table.
Instead you settle for a slap in the face from reality,
A shot of tequila,
And a puddle of blood-filled spittle on the linolieum.
We all died... and we never existed.