Angels falling into

Candles with broken wicks,
Can this money make me
The greatest lover with
The whitest mouth you’ll kiss?

Biting back, ’take my tax
From your thick artery;
Darkness licks up the floor—
Your lifeless form under

Boards, married to my gash—
I dig meaning out of
My Self so hastily,
Nails dirtied with one wish:

Lord, please let me have this.

Mercy at the door, your
Flesh distills more bled bliss
Than success possesses;
Wet with sweat more tasteless

Than our best marathon
Lets us finish in; when
I’m gone, it’ll get—I
promise—better than this.

Inheritance fills one;
Hunger doesn’t exist.
Once you’re read, your words just
Fix up your emptiness.

That’s what the good book said.