that leads men to tired graves
the back-breaking burden of quiet desperation
when we touch i feel bone splinter
like masturbating for the first time again
without the tongue tangled bedroom lies
remove the stitches and warm myself
on blood-stained sheets
those sorry old bedroom lies
and tight-lipped secret blood ties
admitting there's a problem
is the first step, so we're still twelve behind
lay naked near on top of your pictures after self-indulgent coitus
choking on drywall nails and paint chips
like poisoning Rasputin
immune to those stark white thighs
i'm riding this dead horse
all the way to coitus or quietus
and praying you're smiling with unwashed lips
because i'm riding this dead horse
all the way to coitus or quietus
whichever comes first