judas, me, need smokes

On your way home, honey, would

it please to buy Judas and me

some smokes? We have yet

to arm ourselves with clothes

and seriously face the day, but

seriously, who swings that way?

We've talked about you, lunging

from the sofa to the

broken yellow chair,

Icarus sailing above us,

all that golden-iron hair

I swear love, would you please

pick me Judas up some smokes?

The sea outside my window

is a-turning. He's gone blurry.

Come home. He's at my throat

and needs be me to relax,

needs not to make me choke

but now we're soaked, honey,

oh no! Come home! Fucking

come home: the flood from the rag

is rung, is rung