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Buckeye

de Burn The Priest

Turn on all the lights and punch them out.
All four burners going, pile it on fire.
Metal sparks in the nuclear box.
Fist through a window pane and our broken coffee cups litter the kitchen floor. Smoke rolling across the
ceiling suck down the bride's champagne and swallow a few more sleepy ones.
Pass the bottle to none and swing from the gate.
Speak in the name of
suffering as loud as it gets. Knuckled holes in everything spittle and love
fling into a crying eye that runs away.
A dead dog in the street nothing brings a slain king back.
You'll never know the bittersweet smell of leaving
this world of your own volition.
So jacked up.

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