tucked under my

bed

and a million clowns in velvet

gowns waltzing on the iris of

a dead man's eye, someone

she use to know, but never

told because her story's

getting old and she

found those gray hairs

yesterday.

L said that God

was an old woman who always wore

pink, and lost her baby eons

ago, a humanity wants a part

of divinity has been paying

ever since. Because it's too

much to give and continue

to live so she's gotta find

way to survive, and sometimes

L says that

God is dead, between us

and Beenie she can't

decide, but I never saw

a grave so I never

asked why

I've got Blue Beard's Tiger

and red licorice dreams, for a shot

salvation in a bottle of schemes and

twelve gold fish swimming through

my veins, where the blood use to

be (I told ya I've changed). And

maybe, I said, you should shut

your mouth, and she would shut

her mouth, (but there's something

in it).

And guilt is the weapon

that's worse than a bullet to the stomach

it's the weapon you pull on yourself

That's how Sylvia Plath, Prometheus

and I began to talk about suicide.

I've got Blue Beard's Tiger

I've been touched by God

I've got Blue Beard's Tiger

I'm in a room without a door

wondering how I got here

wondering how I'll get

out