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Blood Brothers » Cecilia and the Silhouette Saloon
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	murder = white out. cancer = birth blouse. mirror = perfect glass spouse. oil = sex paint. shower = water saint. Death decodes the howls from our hands. skull = noise nest. TV = fuck test. mirror = siamese gun kiss. sugar = birth bait. murder = loves fate. death distills the camouflage from our dance. death inverts the red from romance. Death x-rays the angels of chance. death; the anti mirror of infants. Like a picture hiding beneath the digital Avalanche. When cecilia's grave cracked like a dirt cacoon, she pulled up a stool at the silhouette saloon. The player piano mumbling crippled jigs, black widows knitting victimless wigs. When cecilia's throat slit like a second set of lips she drooled braille bibles onto the brothel bed spread, like an egg whose yoke defies child bearing hips. Like a ghost who fears all of the deceased and dead. (time eats the flesh and spits out the shadow like a useless wishbone.) But that locket spinning around her neck, whose hearth heats a dead valentine, you know the phantom trail leads way to a muted grave. Where is his voice now? A dead tone in the flutter of drunken wings, Where is his blushed cheek now, A face unraveled in shadow, veiled in blind laughter. Where are those sex ripened lips, his kiss print still warm on several necks. Where is love now? murder = white out. cancer = birth blouse. mirror = perfect glass spouse. oil = sex paint. shower = water saint. Death decodes the howls from our hands. skull = noise nest. TV = fuck test. mirror = siamese gun kiss. sugar = birth bait. murder = loves fate. death distills the camouflage from our dance. death inverts the red from romance. Death x-rays the angels of chance. death; the anti mirror of infants. Like a picture hiding beneath the digital Avalanche.
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