Lithid Since Post Mortem

We always said that we'd hang ourselves from the ceiling
but now this is just the waking scent of still life memory that we've been dreaming
with eyes draped over our shoulders against the wind
and marlboros clenched between our teeth hauling on a whim
we said that we were meant for better things
songs of bitterness that the swallow sings
bird choke holds that the biters bring
and melodies from throats so cold the notes froze as they ring
the way the mammoth was destined to be swallowed over the by seething
all the while entertaining pachyderm sized thoughts
of elephant grass tall enough to touch the leaves painted green
we were as tall as this at one point / then grinning
distantly feral between jagged words that slither
leaving tiny stars in our wake across the television screen
cheek fulls that finger the macro shots in dissipating montage
on I-wish-there-was-anything-left-to-discover on those channels
and we snickered like we knew what they meant

we will find the paths and streets that they lost
abuse and reuse them to our own ends
these ideas made sense to us at the time
or so it would seem

bellies to the dirt
shadowed by taller growths wider ambition
obviously for we were sixteen then sunken and slinking
between the cracks in the road lost between the foxholes
and sidewalk chalk all for the cause and effect of one goddamn reason
for us to be acting no longer than the stalagmites that held us down
speaking on about how we'll one day hang ourselves
by snake skin from the inner peaks of the cathedrals ceiling
now all that we do is slipping forked tongues between the legs
of the memory of our sixteen year old selves slithering and dreaming
empty shells of the ghosts that we used to dream about
ghosts of the gods we worshipped in those worship buildings
and ghosts of the pilates that claimed we could not find salvation
in any other space than dark brick buildings built by dead men
under clocks tolling a time when the skies seemed higher than our limbless bodies could lift us
when our bow ties turned to necktied creating god caught by the tongue gutted to the knave
along the chest hair line to our shitsmeared crooked awkward who me grin
winking what with a dear god what have I done?

gleaming inside of our wide and empty third eye
pried open above our own reflection
concaving and convexing our thoughts into words
twisted as the infinitely too many times rewritten scriptures
whispered into the cut clean ears of disciples under fear
words that spilled from our throats
mouths draped open to dry to draw emotion from these spirits in a single moment
but it is certain that if I could be the one to tongue and wet our lips
that a prayer would flow from our mouths like the ocean
if only I could be the one to grasp salvation as it lingers softly in front of me
like silk in the wind dancing in slow motion
it is certain that a prayer would spill from our mouths like the ocean

for in the shadows of brick steeples mistook for shilouettes of hangman's nooses
I should hope to be the one to open my throat from ear to ear
and spill the wind of the words that dictate my heart
onto the coals of profanity and listen to it sear
I should hope to be the one to open my heart for a single moment
and then close it

hung by the fucking throat from the ceiling

we used to say we'd do a lot of things
but we used to say alot