Groom

Hey, I meant to ask you
With a straight face
Because it won’t contort
Even with attempts to tear it off
The blood-bone manicured fingers
All white against the cadmium sky
Anyway, what was I saying?
I wanted to ask you politely
With leather clad strumming vocal chords
The neck skin is now tattoo
Much to chagrin of thorium barons
Who say it’s not proper dress code
And that alpha decay reflects poorly
Wait, we’re missing the forest for the woods here
With chlorotic tongues aged and bloated
Every breath whistles a new language
Hypoxia protects from meat ash submersion
I hear it reduces dark circles around plastic eyelids
Inside which neither you can see nor I
Would you please give your rail mustache a trim?

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