Sing songs that burn your heart like matches scraped
across the rough contingencies of love,
that flare in revelations calmly raped
before the crime is taken notice of.
Sing songs that freeze your heart in static hell
where zero is the absolute of pain
which suffers no deception, tolls no bell
until they drive your fucking mind insane.
Sing songs that stay the course; your left your right
converge into a point. The point is death,
although prophetic voices out of sight
sing songs drawn from a deeper, living breath.
Sing life; sing death. Each melody is wrong,
devoid of passion’s purpose in the song.