With my heart in the cellar, my head in the attic.

[postcardheart]

The rock and roll gods are screaming.
At one fifteen. The sharp corners blur.
As the alligator heads burn.
Daring flames lull their wooden skulls.
Lick their smoking lids.
And they say the girl has got the Devil in her eyes.
And a saint sitting on the tip of her tongue.
Stapled to a brick wall.
This shall be an unsightly crucifixion.
When really, all our porcline dolls need is a simple exorcism.
Handsome monster that feeds inside her.
Humble mind.
And the Queen has dubbed him her happiness.
So, we inhale deeply.
And pass.
Futile street corners.
On her way to nowhere.
The fool stands before her.
Waiting so patiently.
So patiently waiting.
Latching on to her nerves.
Stripping her into a parallel uniform.
Chasing desire at increasing altitudes.
Fishing for any amount of forgiveness.
Not knowing which Hollywood idol to kill next.
She has to close this.
Her legs.
Her heart.
This deal.
And with nothing left to confess.
We are tragically torn.
As our pourous mouths open to sing.
We stand artlessly at attention.
Hats off to her.
Arms open to you.
Our short salute to childhood has been so, only to amuse you.