4/4
with a hand inside his head
he sleeps inside his guitar-cased
coffin
and weeps angel trumpets
and sandwiched between temples
are a pair of eyes
that cannot close
and lie deserted.
his synapses beep a 4/4 metronome;
a morse for his lost amore
with the downbeat blowing
the mating call of a mort
and as morning comes
a pair of palms
fly over the gas stove fire -
"twins thieving oxygen".
dragging a soul
at the sole of a palindrome
shoulders shrug away
the shaloms and mazel tovs
and shrugs towards
the nearest hearse,
hands inside
molotovs
.
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