Chicago Typewriter - Trophy Scars

Sun light peers through the window of our forsaken house

You look at my face, I look at your face, you put your hand to your mouth

Are you troubled, my dear?

Are you boiling with fear?

Has your guilt-ridden

conscious caved in?

There’s no heaven or hell this house is it for us both, let the haunting

forever begin.

So I punish my liver like I walked in a caught him fucking my daughter,

he was fucking my daughter

I’m a cobweb in the corner, I’m tortured and worn out, but I’d like you to

remember me as great

(Great writer, a great lover, great artist, great…)

And so I garnish my liver with the blood of whoever and I tell you I love you

because I believe that I love you

I believe you’ll leave me a sad empty vessel, and I’ll just wander these halls

like a slow moving thought

We watch the wood floors warp in the sun patiently pacing til midnight

We watch our corpses decompose in the bleached silver ray of the moonlight

The years forget us as our bones turn to dust, she speaks only when lonely

As we accept fate, just then a family of eight moves in for a small sum of money

So now punished, I shall punish whoever inhabits this house- now a canvas,

a puppet with my hand in it

I move through the rooms like a hemorrhaged balloon

I tickle your neck with the stink of my breath

Now I garnish my hate with the torture of eight

I sell them religion because we all need religion

Now enter the priest!

He shrieks latin and sprays water

I stick to the walls

In this house I am God

In every home a ghost exists, with every moan the house admits.