the day the night went moonless,
a chorus cried out,
bleary eyed and tuneless,
us in our long shadowed innocence
never stood a god damn chance.

sticky lipped like vampires,
spinning drunk on changing tides,
bleary red chills: goosebump dances
(brushed with death to breathe alive)
yellow leaves in hearse rides.

Painting theromin by numbers,
feeling-hearing split and folded,
a snicker snack of vorpal fruits
cut and quartered, drawn depraved
knowledge taught us demons gravely:
'Fortune killed the brave'

Skeletons and running jokes
Homestruck closet wine and wire
child-kings of crows and carrion,
making music out of fire.
picked apart for curious,
left drying in the frost
passing fancies and feasts of sex,
ours don't get buried with the crossed.

We are headstone salt
We are your damaged, your poor,
your memorable fleeting new moon nights
harvested too soon
harvested too soon
Bent and broken by your whims
into shapes like no mans land

Nothing will grow from us again