and catch splinters hopping the old fence
crossing our chest
like a bat out of hell
on the run
from the restless spirits
If my head
was your movie
oh baby we'd be a western.
We took the pale horse
and headed south
to the tomestone
lawless country
where southern women
poison the river
washing off sins
and i drink down stream.
I exert hate-o-active waves
the company of sketchy shadow
on high noon at puker mountain
my wounded knee is calling
the Geronimo in my boney cavity
to stop beating
For a second i feel the whiskey
hold off unending hand tremors
come and go like the seasons
and its been a long winter.
the survivalist
sucks the juice from a berry
before biting
consuming to its end.
the fool
insomnia has you
catching sun ghosts
you cant trust yourself
and you leave things
just so
half - buried
in the woods.
What manner of business is this.
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