the suicide crypt for misfit freaks

is filled with old telephones,

direct lines to God Himself.

descend carefully

knobbly socks from your stint at Alcatraz

gritty from the sand leaking from the chairs

spear-wound in the plastic

this is a safe space

descend quietly

(that song is forbidden here).

huddled behind flimsy curtains

i regurgitate metals

smuggled under my tongue -- next to the pills

(who hides them there?)

be honest with us

only if you want your life to be over

if you want to become a paper doll dipped in wine

stained forever by the razorblades of your youth.

and? has anything changed?

the UNO rules

the quality of the current events

printed on our shanks

(who does this?)

and? have you?

step over the wires

and pick up the handset

if you listen closely, you can hear the sea.