I was Thinking of the Diner Painting While Reading Your Work

After Jeff Brennan

Your voice was death,
a black sea to mount
attacks to, bright
misnomers, trench-locked

and feeling like petty cash.
There is no God in this room.
There is nothing here but
flaking skin remnants,
old used cookies with single
bites out of them, and a
trash can born out of porn,
beer, and broken CD burners.

I would clean this room,
force writing into gallop-
step, but I've got a bucket
to go fill with fly blood.