I believe we shall bring the matchbox
the matchbox, yes, that one under there
we journey, tomorrow, where you cannot breathe, requisite dance on the verge
Oh light! Cobarde, you, you
Suffocating ever slowly in your own shadowless intensity
Most do not decry you, but I know you, yo se, I do
They blame me, my wandering, my matchbox journey
and the children who oft travel with me.
Father sent me, starving sisters, la guerra too
But I know, yo se, it is not true
I am not afraid of you, or the shadows that you cast
to cover an ugly, nude body.
Convincing mask of worldly brew,
I and my sick bastards will come pining, pining,
And you, and voz, in your abode
flagrant, wispy fingers reaching
for our torn milk-stained clothes as we hold each-other weeping, the simple few
A psuedo-scientific psychotic episode.
As the cream of their poison flows in, I light my match, maybe two
And march, march, march back toward you.
Your chest collapses
Your staggering, fool
My torch, yes a fire flame, melts your false lungs into warm stew
Soon, it tastes like cream. I am forced to leave you.
But fear! But fear, Cobarde
I have tasted you.