45*21

the moon made a broad lobe
it cloaked us in alizarin crimson and burnt sienna
the nights were like wind in a funnel
we tried for every outlet and found the first arcade
love was like a bullet to the brain
the doors made a solid click
you were a peacock with out a plume
blow me kiss and shut the door gentle on the way out
your purfume smells of the bell boy
you better play tennis for the coach
how does it feel dying in the middle of someone elses
calling card. The dudgeon wasn't only mine
but a thousand others as time wore on
you get a gilded coat and it has seven arms
and none of them can hold you
truer than the moon on an August night
I was gonna be the best girl with bright league boots
and tan the hides of all those angels who cursed my stars
and ran the plate of my jalopy
I am the priestess of my own sacred upbringing
and you are the fruit rotting in my fridge