we confused the table for an awkward place to sit
catching flies inside our mouths
and beating air with both our fists
sounding off like clarions
around the room we moved the wind
in absolute and organizing waves
in line with both our lips
we pealed our fingers off the table
scratched the bones for quite a bit
assuming everything that laid there dead
was there collecting lint
in a more ordinary fashion
than my old and tired skin
familiar to the blemished wood
that this here table was made with

you'd like to smash the organs
pumping breathing bleed
i'm quite sure why this morning
i'm still half asleep
cold carcass framework
torn apart as piece by piece
our brains were half connected
broken at the seams,
do you still dream?

when the smoke cleared all these angels
were the devils that you dread
assigning places for your soul
with anchors on a molten bed
and if the screams of apprehension
don't appease the incubus
he'll reach right in and pump your lungs
and clank your heart with his bare hands

oh, if life was on a tabletop...