#8

The blood of Home coursed through his veins
He needed witnesses to prove he’d spilled it.

First he wrapped the rhythm in rusty chains
Then he sneaked up on the melody and killed it.
/s

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…he was going

African blue notes and holy rock and roll a strychnine soup for the black boojie soul and she knew all right where the notes came from but it was too late to shush her little talking drum cuz she’d been to where he was coming from and was worried about where he was going…

hly wr on sndy mrning

mother never let him know how she felt about the game called the baptist fashion show and how they both felt the same…she still figured jesus was safer than his dreams…he was getting to that age where he could them to extremes she had him dunk his soul in their murky fishbowl it swam but it didn’t get saved while he thought “if this is what heaven looks like i don’t care how the streets are paved”

damascus fragment…

…and he was gamely tagging along quietly like a robber lurking at the side of a medieval road
who’d forgotten his reason for being cuz he was stolen away by the pilgrim’s singing and the message in his song just gamely tagging along and lo and behold the robber was freed guaranteed just as long as he let the pilgrim lead…

thursday morning

And there they all were filing into the church dressed for spiritual success as the hearse began to lurch…their color co-ordinated emotions white with black trim… he thought “i love my mother… but i don’t like them.”