Acid and Oil

Splattered faces against the wall
the stench of thick, black oil,
the sound of a bluebird call
reverberating upon soil.

Running, we run, and pick up speed,
Spinning, we spin, when vultures feed.
A dance that stumbles on itself and
where was that planted seed
in the pot on the shelf?

Filing through coffee stained piles of paper
with oil stained fingers
black fading and tapered.

Out of the window
the other side,
a place where
smoke does not hide.

It comes in waves
in satchels and raves,
and dumps its blood
it's breathy mud.

I won't go outside 
no, fuck no,
not now,
not ever.