Broken mirrors
carpeting splintered floors
reflect Medusa's ugliness
with angles once unseen.
Bite-sized pieces still form the puzzle
completely without flaw.
Dragon tails garnishing arsenic cocktails,
I can taste my dying
no matter how much you protest.
Beautiful,
wonderful,
fucking amazing,
the best little drone
for your dollar.
Stroke it,
pet it,
call it a god,
some gods
don't want to be worshipped.
All of the shrapnel
nestled deeply into the soles
of feet that welcome the funeral
of broken swans,
like ticks rejecting the sunlight
when there is none to be found.
Prospects are prospects
when they point in the direction
of tomorrow above the ground.
A fallen angel sits in a darkened alley,
in the middle of a ghetto,
strumming a harp strung with barb wire
because it feels so good to bleed to death
with the guilt of the world on vacation.
