So glad EPT are EP.

Oh Baby
your daddy eats atom bombs,
cat nip and camel 99's (BURNING);
likes only American blended whiskies
like his women
one part schizo
two parts maniac.

His favorite letter: X. Carved into
the whip of glass bottles he uses
to flagellate his insides;
a thrashing in the womb.
Not enough till it breaks
scatters
sins leaking
from his inebriated eyes.
He counts his own fingers and toes
religiously like they were yours.
Like it can bring you back to him.

Baby, he's lost
in the dance of anarchy
spun faster and faster
until half truths
blur to lies (BURNING).

Keeps company with a public
that hide the same demons
in their empty pockets.
They remind him to
exorcise his ghosts daily
with their fist spit,
perforated punch love and
words "they dont mean."

He told me "She took the best shot and
it always felt like shit(BURNED)
all the way down."

Said he couldnt find that moment
to look in the mirror
it was only between dreams
it was only passing out
and coming to that felt
like sleeping anymore.

My fingers were too gentle
when he begged me to pluck
his ribs;
guitar strings
a lulluby for him to keep his fears a bay.
To keep your face (BURNING) Baby.

He tatooted your fetus
behind his eyelids
memorized it by moonlight
inked in solid guilt.

I am sorry.
Baby.
I have no razors edge excuses
to explain him to you.
I dont know the map
of his hash marks
on flesh forearm chalk boards.
He told me each mark
was an apology to you (BURNING).
An apology to
the nightmare sunrise
you would never see.

Still he keeps
whistling to your song, Baby,
by the light of the rerun reel
of a hungover horizon.

Every morning
he lifts your body from his bed.
Smile of Icarus wax
falling far too close to the sun
or the edge of that roof (BURNING)
made of tortured family portrait's (BURNING).

Baby. Your sonogram seared into his palms (BURNING)
"We dont have time for polaroids" he said (BURNING
and lights another 99. (BURNING)