1, 2, 3, 4 Guitars

Let’s sling our rain slicks over
February’s fantastic antlers
Sprouting from the foreheads of
World famous necromancers
The winter’s looming like a
Bloodthirsty bird of prey
And I guarantee by spring we’ll either be
World famous or goddamned dead
Guitar one fastens languid years to busty bones
Like dust and skin on a dull antique moon
Guitar two’s touch keeps ruining lovers for other lovers
Like jokers concealed in trick decks in our laps
There’s a train tumbling down torn paper tracks
While weeds blossom from heartbeats that lack
Guitar three’s dancing even though
Her song ended ages and ages ago
At a dance club suspended
In the middle of a rambling sentence
Guitar four says, «if you still believe in the grace of man
Let me introduce you to greedy greedy greedy hands.»
Let’s sling our rain slicks over
Every single second to the rapture
Dripping from clocks
Ticking all our misadventures
The winter left town with
Some seventeen-year-old waitress
And spring’s laying in a pile of
All the moments of our misadventures