WICKED GO THE DOORS
christopher kennedy
Moon-killers, a salt fuse lit by lightning, sulfur smell in the devil’s lair; we’d go to the roadhouse, watch the rattlesnakes swallow their segmented tails; we’d speak in tongues and slither across the dance floor until the whole sick mess was as one in the eyes of no god; we’d speed until we were Jesus, hang by crosses made of dry thread; knew it was blindness wicked made.
Christopher Kennedy
chriskenne@gmail.com
Like You'd Understand, Anyway
Jim Shepard