Bleeding black sheep boy,
mirror in pieces,
turn the rece
trace the police station
line to my number, and
number my reasons
each night that the numbers,
paired off like lovers,
lided together so
I can’t remember
name or my nat
Baying black sheep boy,
the pasture, you’ve
cracked out of my
in your battered
mustang, and the back
seat will be your
Burning black sheep boy, dark denim phantom
face full of flames, ears full of cheers that have fanned them.
I’d slice off the horns that sprung right from those temples.
I was chased from that bedroom, I was chased from my candles
by fear of the numbers, paired off like lovers,
collided together so I can’t remember
my face or my station. Pacing black sheep boy,
the floor just won’t support you, you hover through the room.
Get in your battered mustang and the backseat will be your tomb
And I rode into Baltimore and I found a hotelroom,
where I tried to escape you but the phone line wouldn’t go through.
And inside the mirror I saw you, stamping staring out.
I don’t recognize your eyes, your mouth or any of those lines
that come flying out. Nothing I’ve heard from you sounds sane or safe:
words falling down from the ceiling, where the mirror is stealing
the light to reveal us both tonight, and we’re both kneeling in the
black pool of your shadow. You’ve cracked out of my head.
Go back beyond the pasture, or I’ll smash your mirror till you’re dead.