Sons Of Perdition A Folk Artist
A steamer chest in an attic
Orphaned among celestial motes
That spin and accrete
And rise and fall
Pregnant with their secrets
Pregnant with their secrets
A body, dark as wine
Exposed muscle like cables
Tendons stretched and cracked
Bathed in old motor oil
Naïve taxidermy
Naïve taxidermy
Skin folded neatly in wax paper
Less supple now
Yellowed like the old newspaper
That cradles a lost name
And whispers a tale of a life
And whispers a tale of a life
A jar of teeth and fingers
Miles away
Planted like an obscene seed
That should grow into a lynching tree
And bear horrid fruit
Gestating in the soil
As all things do
