Crocodiles

Cold hands
Grip gallons of clams
Traveling bands
And see saw plans
You stand in a burning hospital
Naked and nurtured
With cultured vultures.
I prefer if you wouldn’t object
Inspecting intestinal perpetual pleasures
I gather opinions like onion strings.
I will knot if you ever cut loose.
Cut nooses.
Cut geese necks and red spruces.
Induced with another demise.
Rising down
With a clown
So torn to the bone.
Alone
Standing
On a cell phone.
Stones are tone deaf.
Unstressed with a cleft chin.
Spinning sidewalks talk to tongues tied
To a spy’s eye.
Relying on a relapse
The clams collapse
On a spatula’s cracked back.
Cold hands
Fade to black.