Massacre I: The Lighthouse

This grin is shit-eating and fleeting like a catamaran.
It fits me better than a smile on a dead man.

Watch the hands of the ticking clock for emotional rock.

I’ve strangled necks of ages with the fabric of new words.
The bar withstood the raising which tastemakers allowed.
One fire to block the exit, two palms to block the sound as each bulb smashed from the ceiling at the lighthouse.

And with the weight of a monolith perched on a guiltless chest.
Once a witness you can’t shake the thought of 15 year old dick ornaments on kabuki faced jocks hair sprayed up the ass.

Wide open inviting the next pop rock star asshole.
Well I won’t be failed anymore and I won’t play fair anymore.

All eyes are on the lighthouse, collapsing.

I’ve strangled necks of ages with the fabric of new words.
The fires were amazing. Why would you put those out?
And what the gun was not erasing, these bare hands snuffed right out when each bulb smashed from the ceiling at the lighthouse.

You won’t be failed anymore.