"How many Angels can dance on the head of a pin?"
It depends on the tune."
The wives' tale bed sheet question plagued something in me, splinter deep in my mind I clawed at the pain, pulling hard to hold the point.
Is the same true for needles?
Our society, the outlawed souls, has become all too fascinated with the rending of our own skin, speared deep with pointed metal.
It depends on the tune.
As the harpoon, pregnant with roadside ink, hovers above a canvas of flesh begging to express itself in swirls of tribal symbols, words, lovers' names and the shapes of dreams, do the angels mosh to the the thrash metal anointing the parlor with still quivering snare drums and songs about outlaws?
It depends on the tune.
When potassium chloride runs through the veins of the too-many marked to crossover at our hands, do the winged lovers of God find cause to move their feet on that pointed peak as it reduces the condemned to a turned off radio? All is silent, do they still shuffle to praise songs, or the prayers of survivors?
It depends on the tune.
Acupuncture is their promised land, healing and the songs of ancient time. Do the angels undulate as the stress rolls off the body?
Do demons tango to the same songs when the world's forgotten overdose themselves to ascension.
When a soul crosses over at the hands of a needle packed with broken promises, to the angels and demons dance together?
Or is the music drowned out,
by the flapping of wings?
It depends on the tune.
It depends on the tune."
The wives' tale bed sheet question plagued something in me, splinter deep in my mind I clawed at the pain, pulling hard to hold the point.
Is the same true for needles?
Our society, the outlawed souls, has become all too fascinated with the rending of our own skin, speared deep with pointed metal.
It depends on the tune.
As the harpoon, pregnant with roadside ink, hovers above a canvas of flesh begging to express itself in swirls of tribal symbols, words, lovers' names and the shapes of dreams, do the angels mosh to the the thrash metal anointing the parlor with still quivering snare drums and songs about outlaws?
It depends on the tune.
When potassium chloride runs through the veins of the too-many marked to crossover at our hands, do the winged lovers of God find cause to move their feet on that pointed peak as it reduces the condemned to a turned off radio? All is silent, do they still shuffle to praise songs, or the prayers of survivors?
It depends on the tune.
Acupuncture is their promised land, healing and the songs of ancient time. Do the angels undulate as the stress rolls off the body?
Do demons tango to the same songs when the world's forgotten overdose themselves to ascension.
When a soul crosses over at the hands of a needle packed with broken promises, to the angels and demons dance together?
Or is the music drowned out,
by the flapping of wings?
It depends on the tune.
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