Under surging beams of blood moon
Tracing our names with steps
We mash potato like mad children
You tell me my moves are dangerous
Danger would be restocking this rock
Besides, I'm surgically safe.
You stuck with this devil you know
instead of all the demons you didn't.
if I'd find you sexy. Yes.
Like a central Indiana accent
on the French Riviera, I quip.
And we laugh, not really remembering
mingled dialects of our past.
We hardly recall Walmart, our divorce,
Or names of egoistic leaders
who believed they could actually
And as they fell, the money burned,
leaving the barons a barren sculpin
that tried to pacify itself daily
they'd swaddle like injured babies
Before tossing away empties, disposable
Like the minutes counted down to a terminal
diagnosis of confounded literacy
Euthanized by the weak or
Flashing across satellite boob tubes
like a thief in the night
No one was hip to the signs
and tuned to radio nowhere
We chose ballads over bullets
Songs that pour kerosene cymbals
into open wounds that peel the
metaphorical nouns lit under our skin
an offering of combustible words
that work this world to its scab to heal
in time like you and I like tonight
under surging beams of blood moon
we trace our names with steps
in the ash and twist our hopes
into the smoke of a vague ruin touch as
fast sparks from blue flame fingertips
As our kisses cinch across apocalypse