The Town Is Silent. The Night Boils

At Six I Lived In A Graveyard Full Of Dolls, Avoiding Myself, My Body, The Suspect In Its Grotesque House.

The Saints Come, As Human As A Mouth, With A Bag Of God In Their Backs, Like A Hunchback, They Come, They Come Marching In.

She Suffers According To The Digits Of My Hate. I Hear The Filaments Of Alabaster. I Would Lie Down With Them And Lift My Madness Off Like A Wig. I Would Lie Outside In A Room Of Wool And Let The Snow Cover Me. Paris White Or Flake White Or Argentine, All In The Washbasin Of My Mouth, Calling “oh.” I Am Empty. I Am Witless. Death Is Here. There Is No Other Settlement.

It Is June. I Am Tired Of Being Brave.

It's All A Matter Of History. Brandy Is No Solace. Librium Only Lies Me Down Like A Dead Snow Queen. Yes! I Am Still The Criminal.