life music

the groupie sings her song silently
(maybe not knowing the words)
she is never drinking again, because her syllables will never be perfect, her verbs black with sin, like Earth.

Her body is often a spaceship,
frosted with nebular stardust haze,
and in amazement she will hunchback graze the sideways paint with her fermenting fingertips in the melancholy act of
...searching for her inner infinite goddess.

She is breaking her heart against the wall.

A crowd of "everybodys" like anybody appreciates
diluted twists and strands of life-like heroine culture.
They are two legged pearls, trapped in crystal boxes,
(fleshy bodies)
singing their rebel songs, adding more crime to the purity
of pressed shirt Tuesdays, holy and precious temptresses,
and the weak brew, that reminds them to mind their own goddamn business.
Singing the praised of failed executions, the audience a
delicate wreck, frowning their own creative pauses.
They close their eyes when the words get gravity,
fingers battle eyelids for face lifting harmonies,

they are throwing their hearts against the walls.

They are a wasteland of runners.
(barefeet) dancing,
electronic heels gripped with the sun, which evicts them.
Naked toes are poor, and can't pay rent.
"So much for Saturdays," they say.
Submerged in neon tempests of rocked-inspiration,
the drummer's perspiration rains upon the ground.
...making the crowd remember the Kings, once long ago, who never wore crowns.
They will smoke the royals out of their tombs.
They are painting the sad -sappy words.
(with blood and beer on their indexes)
they are breaking their hearts against the wall.