Angels on a Needle

And I saw you
on the carpet,
making angels with your hands.
Such a...delicate sigh
as you glance to where I stand.

And I kissed you
on the forehead;
the angels ran away.
Such a...delicate SCREAM
as the halos began to fade.

Tell me:
on the head of a pin,
would the angels dance
while the devils sin?
Tell me:
on the point of a needle,
would the angels dance
and desert the steeple?

And I saw you
on the carpet,
telling angels your goodbyes.
Such a...delicate smile.
The angels, the angels have died.
The angels, the angels have died.

~10/2005

Situation #6

When I set fire to the air,
and burned heaven to the ground,
the whole world was mad at me,
and God decided he'd better come down.
That's when you got on your knees
to speak for me to the Almighty:
"he didn't mean harm, or anything of the sort;
and besides, angels make such lovely fireworks."

~03/2007

Translations

While we lie together under the bed,
hiding from each other,
trying to race ahead;
I open my mouth and there's no question,
but is there an answer?
Guess it depends on how far we run...
how far we'll run.

And so we stare and share a communion.
This room is a church;
this life, an illusion.
Seeing no evils, and hearing not one;
trying to translate,
but we're speaking in tongues.

While we hibernate, thinking of winter,
deciphering each other
and becoming the symbols;
I feel that I have something to prove,
but I can't decide what,
so I'll leave that up to you...
I'll leave it up to you.

And so we stare and share a communion.
This room is a church;
this life, an illusion.
Seeing no evils, and hearing not one;
trying to translate,
but we're speaking in tongues.

Your kiss, it's a moment's breadth,
a lion's roar, a joker's jest,
and I can't decide what to do with it.
Your eyes betray that they want to win,
and if I gave you the opportunity,
would you pass it up?
Would you defeat me?

So while we smile in our seclusion,
we seek conclusions to these tales.
We're well aware they have no beginnings,
and happy to try though we know we'll fail.
Come with me, speak in tongues...
we'll find our own translations.

~10/2007

Stuck Pig

There are nails penetrating my hooves,
and I think of Jesus, and how I’m nothing like him except
that he was Atlas and I only bear my own sins, but

suddenly I remember that animals were crucified too,
grunting squealing oinking barking like unoiled
gears sticking together, grinding stuck pigs
into sausage.

I imagine my belly cut, my bowels spilled,
crowds of cannibals taking communion
from my body. My pale pink body, pregnant
with passion, or is that apathy? They soak me
up with tampons when I don’t give birth to their dreams.

And when I say forgive me father for I have sinned,
I realize I am squealing at those stricken deaf by religion,
and that I have no sins, for I am a pig and I cannot
sin and therefore cannot be forgiven because

I am merely instinct.
I roll and revel in shit when I’m alive,
and when I’m dead I look like Jesus.

~03/09