hearing the soft nasal tin of my own voice in the midst of my
brake-light red-glowing drive home, my manic
late-night spiritual rebellion fueled by
electro-pop synth beats driving blood and youth into the flesh I
can't escape I can't
find "eternal" written on this body if I
close my eyes tightly enough-- singing along she still sounds

innocent

I don't recognize the thing up to its neck in
rocket fuel walking through the same three
doors every day on legs slowly burning up into exhaust, dredging itself through routine collecting time like a commodity, like a felon doing penance nor do I

recognize the beautiful thing feigning blissful ignorance, abusing itself, beating on drums with the heads of her violins,
wooden scrolls splintering over snares, she is
the brightest thing I've ever seen mutilate her stradivarius,
terrified by the gift she never asked for, preferring
to pump fists and sing in the dark but I
can't escape I can't
break myself into pieces small enough to become oblivious-- my

voice while singing with the devil still sounds like a gift from God