What should have been the End but was not
When you sit, laying on the stone
In the suicide jacket
It's so cold
Like your candle-hot soul
Over which you could hold your hand
And smell, feeling flesh burning
As you've done before
Orange-lighted precious face of beloved
See it shining like the flame, waves of searing heat.
Peel it off, it's so tender
Like the spinning feelings of the spinning, damning wheel.
I am the spikes,
Or I am on the spikes.
The spikes are black sewing needles
Ripping out the blackness.
Oh, oh, rip the paper hear it scream
Name of loving loved, the file on the end
Of the spikes
The file can sharpen for the ripping
Or dull for the lost tears in the letterbox.
You know, the pain leaves white spots on your
Staring at a flame's point.