she shaved her pussy hair
a little triangle
she hasn't done that
in at least 10 years

he comes home drunk
every night now
that's his life now
after fifteen beers

cradled safe and soft
amniotic sac
marinate in sweat
and cheap perfume

turn the tv off
so he won't see her face
that gunpowder scent
won't leave the room


ain't a damn day passed
without a tear shed
(or at least a drop of sweat)
maybe a second glass
can wash the bitter taste
that dumb look off his face
(or at least get him trashed)


and now she's lost the plot
of her own story
she hasn't been this way
since her salad days

he's just a broken clock
but he can hold his mud
no she won't see a thing
on his pallid face

like an old scarecrow
shouldering ravens
exhausted and vacant
silhouette in fog

grayscale photographs
blurry from the shakes
delerium tremens and
fear of getting caught


ain't a damn day passed
without a tear shed
(or at least a drop of sweat)
maybe a second glass
can wash the bitter taste
that dumb look off his face
(or at least get him trashed)


gospel radio
the distant static drowned 
by droning bald tires
on rain mirrored streets

past one last landmark
a clustered group of trees
if they'll still be there  
remains to be seen

beneath the sediment
settled in the bed
within the crevices
a barrel exhumed

that fitful metronome
it counts his steps from home
but one day it'll cease
maybe some day soon


ain't a damn day passed
without a tear shed
(or at least a drop of sweat)
maybe a second glass
can wash the bitter taste
that dumb look off his face
(or at least get him trashed)

Crime Passionnel DEMO

freakbait

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