Morning remains the sweetest time to hang a man, with the thrush’s gospel keeping time for legs that dance aloft the breeze and the white lilies wrapped and wilting atop your slack-jawed maw of a tomb. And so it remains, my love, that I was hung and you were bereaved by these shiv sentiments held to my throat to keep me still on the gallows while the hangman threads his lugubrious loops, by that steely penetration concealed in the stranger’s furtive pupil-sheathes. Though, seeing as I am not allowed the luxury of a midnight neck-slip, I can only tell you how it might be to be proffered up as poor Prometheus’s liver each and every morning, when I meander through the schoolhouse doors and stand my rigid trial against the watchman’s gaze.
The jury is plenary and puissant, pervicacious it’s true, though ruthfully swift. I pierce the hollow glimpses that serve as windows into the trial-room, where I can partake in a doppelganger’s pleading of my improvidently predictable case, whence I can pass the aegis onto some cackling figment transplanted from the planes of prejudice into my countenance. Hear the devil’s tongue, my love, and mark it well;
“I Am On Heroin,â€