Fruit In My Fist
Lips: like cliché cartoon roses.
But open up my mouth,
Those lilies will - snap. - You. - Up.
Thorn in your side.
I think we used to fly with the bats,
The doves always ended up on our dinner table,
I told you it was chicken.
You choked me with Amen,
You squeezed me with your hand for grace,
For grace, from grace I fell
Down from the heavens...
Don’t drink wine!
It reminds me of His body,
Besides, I prefer vodka.
Maybe I’ll let you hold my hand one day
But only if it’s because I’m falling again.
Not today, not for love:
‘Love one another as I have loved you’
And I lust you like this.
Maybe Cupid’s arrow is just faulty, temperamental...
After all, there’s something stuck up your arse.
I’m always blowing the candles out,
Grinning through the psalms,
Laughing through the prayers,
I can’t walk into church with you
But I can meet you by the graveyard,
By the Bye.
My dear, there’s a stone in your eye,
I’ve used it to kill two doves,
It was the day Peter heard the cockerel cry.
We’re all sinners my dear,
We’re all the reason the flood came,
The snake is coiled in all of our mouths,
Mine just hisses at you.
But you always come back for the taste of venom,
Knowing the tower you built reaches my lips
And having forgotten your mother tongue,
With your heart unable to communicate,
You cum again:
Tempted for a bite of the fruit in my fist.