I do so desperately inquire
on the nature of this desire
to defang an airline transmission
with my music-box imposition.
I shall watch the plane burst into flames,
curling around the check-in desk names,
as the rhythm goes unabated
into foreign skies inundated.
And we will crash into the ocean
as the melody's soothing lotion
moistens the skin of old men asleep
with their battle scar secrets to keep.
No land will cushion the plastic seat
or the metal bar laid down for feet.
No God will sweep His heavenly hand
down to cradle us over His land,
He'll let us plummet to the abyss
where the wet bodies of our sins kiss
every forehead with a savage grace
and sweetly, softly, our fingers lace.
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