She's exhuming demons
like lollies in wonka land,
they fly out of the little door in her head,
like out of a keyhole,
like poisonous gas
pumping into a room's warm embrace
as you sleep...

Poppies, ah, poppies and we ring round
and fall away
and clean our faces for the newest day.

And she's in birthdays

and prophesied greens;
She's intangible now that she's sleeping

and running and screaming
but not making a sound except a gurgle
when she chokes on the knife she put in his throat
(she'd kissed it beforehand)
and she clutched it for luck
as she wandered in taverns
like jungles and dogpiles.
Mile high memories,
when she's dying in front of him,
they're flying like goblins

out of her head.

Smoke from her ears,
sweat from her skin,
dripping in every incarnation
into his veins
in the IV that will become
the bane of society