The Deaths of Crescent Crowell
They say sanitariums are where the sickly satyrs sleep
To dream those songs like broken records, twisted lyrical lyres
Draining downward tone of I will be your father figure,
Put your tiny hand in mine, I will be your preacher teacher,
Anything you have in mind as our minds retch and rip —
But nothing as darkening as the chorus of Crescent Crowell.
An asylum deep within the bowels of songs played backwards,
Afterward unlocking tears in a veil to unveil words come to life,
Wielding jagged procedural blades to bleed out the corpses
And let the tired, tainted and terrifying souls slip —
Mind in have you anything, teacher preacher your be will I,
Mine in hand tinyyour put, figurefatheryourbewillI —
And the noise shatters whiter than snow, and ghosts will die,
Breaking vinyl like spinal infections injected to break and lie
The pieces down, turning patients into hollow puppets that cry —
