Everyone

Pan sang to me last night

in his voice like wine.

Lyrical and lush...

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The angel cries a single tear,

washing the land of impurities,

demons die in droves.

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Me and Jack are falling way way down

into Orange, into woods,

on phoenix wings and ribs of steel,

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(1) You were a three-headed bombardier with forked tongues and yellow eyes, so I took up a sword and I sliced you right at the voicebox and I must admit it felt good, your blood running thick down my

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sirens call on shrieking winds

alarms and gales whistling through empty streets respond

leaves and dust rise

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One day I'll hate myself enough

To actually live my life

Where all my habits are self destructive

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The door creaks open

It's blue paint now

A moldy turquoise

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Your fingers still smell like

The blueberry cigar you smoked

Before you kissed me at the bottom

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I was maybe

Thirteen or a year older

This was a year or two before

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It's 4:30 or maybe 5 in the morning

On an early summer day

The air smells of Jack Pine and Oak;

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