Mister Blackbird,
believing he's a Phoenix,
performs Hari-Kari
in the shadow
that the moon makes on the earth.
I dance in his ashes
with my voodoo dolls
and lack of morality
as formally declared by The State.

War crimes,
suicide hotlines,
C.S. Lewis prays
to a fatherless God
and his friends
pretend not to notice.

The "Mary Me" mythos
takes another life and
I wake up in a bathtub
holding an empty bottle of
Russian vodka-
a pyramid tatooed to my forehead
and without a fucking clue
as to how I got there.

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