Lay me down in a hearseback
It’s where my new best look is at
If I slit a purse or two then I can’t curse
If my cake is cooked and minor veins are mapped
These tits not filled with milk
These cold bones wrapped in hunger
Like a bundle of sticks in a fire
So slow it leaves them unburned, black and yearning
Will this New Year’s see my rotting hair’s release?
Will my new black book pull the sick from my deepest creases?
A gift from The Maccabees to mom to me
No more flyer-backs or receipts
Using magazines for tables
A girl’s down bed
And corresponding naked wings unable
When I felt my ribs come closing slow
A row of snakes set to strangle
I’m survived
Lay me down in a hearseback
It’s where my new best look is at
If I slit a purse or two then I can’t curse
If my cake is cooked and minor veins are mapped
But you might find me in the white pages yet
My name is next to numbers
Like someone’s father’s father
Left listed in the Book of Numbers
Like someone’s father’s father
Left listed in the Book of Numbers