stomach/head/heart

i’m aching again tonight,

but gut punches are never for you,

but for loud mouths to confess,

and bruised, purple knuckles in the golden trophy case

among a golden mess,

for forgotten TV headlines and sly city scents

i'm aching again

migraines are TV static, and everyone whispers too loud

as I lay on the living room couch,

I will never get silence everyone talks about

the fan seems to spin even faster now

like they’re out to get me-you’re out to get me

i'm aching

real TV muscles against a porcelain dove

I believe love is death and it is death we love