4/4

with a hand inside his head

he sleeps inside his guitar-cased

coffin

and weeps angel trumpets

and sandwiched between temples

are a pair of eyes

that cannot close

and lie deserted.

his synapses beep a 4/4 metronome;

a morse for his lost amore

with the downbeat blowing

the mating call of a mort

and as morning comes

a pair of palms

fly over the gas stove fire -

"twins thieving oxygen".

dragging a soul

at the sole of a palindrome

shoulders shrug away

the shaloms and mazel tovs

and shrugs towards

the nearest hearse,

hands inside

molotovs

.