sir, you must speak into the microphone.

Trophy Scar City:
I am the rat behind the dumpsters you will never know about
a politician's smile
I etched the maps of hell on my skin so I won't be so lost when I return
I compose suicide notes and send them to myself while driving in the rain

Yes, broken record man broke all the records!
We are live via flesh satellite.
Go on about your business, and so will we.

soon, this will be a museum.

pray for this circle of strangers
for they know not what they do
comfort their new reptilian skin
clear out the fog they are in
barricade the doors behind you
quarantined deadly ecstasy
keep the truth from the children
make up stories to fill their heads with

sometimes we all need a lighthouse
we can't see the wreckage of those before us
and those rocks...
what teeth...
someone please climb the stairs.