I got all the old horror

I got all the old horror
In my jeans

Enough shades
For thirty picnics
Where we talk about Thomas
And dining
On the regular blood

Of congenital spirit
And flying
Through barbed wire

Our limbs cut
into a million pieces
And splashing
Across the hurried faces

I make paintings
with severed arms
of old friends
And share fake stories
with beauty queens

Open my fridge
And a perfect head talks
All lips should be frozen together
Only perfect eyes blinking

Once for yes
Two times for no
And a tear
for everything in between

I set no traps
Look at my card
I look like a serial killer
I’ve deceived no one

The light bulbs
turn off
in little brains
While mine dangles
Above some ice cold table
As I cut hearts
Into chests of lovers’

Mad man they call me
And yet every morning
I don the girly suit
And smile for strangers