There's no clock in sight when the counting begins. Just the usual confusion of sky and heaven. The cluttered coterie of memory and fantasy, old flames and movie stars. Faces like photos spent somewhere money doesn't know. Some simple phrase, some tiny spark. A moment only there between minds and eyes. A taste of luck that gave you the ability to believe. Dust sticks to the sputtering and the coughs. The wind just winging it out where the world runs down.
So much confidence in the clatter of brass. These coins minted of slag and theft. These bullets loosed like cats in a storm. The dumb trust in the strap and the steel-toe. Pained expressions and marching orders and the hymn of I've got mine. Would-be killers decrying murder. Faith only found in the filling of each grave. God not an oath but an epithet. The heart empties, the blood comes crowding in. This rhythm of wound and ache we paint on every wall.
This is the life allowed us. The warmth of lead, the comfort of granite. Some sad romance before the streets fill with metal and rain. Dust flavored kisses and cash money dreams. Broken teeth and open wounds, prophets always sounding some alarm. There is a train wailing to the distance. There is the brush strokes of an unseen star. Of all there is to see and do, hands to give and lips to taste, we choose the spell of slaughter. Of all the songs we sing aloud, we pick the ones that would eat our bones. A wide open world beneath a wandering sky, we only love what isn't.
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