We make pretty bombs to kill pretty people
We spill pretty lies to nullify petty grievances
It’s all for naught and to unstabilize our stable geniuses
The touch of your velvet glove creeps out a nation
The touch of your velvet glove lends us nothing, but acrimony
The taste of your poisonous lips paralyzes our unflappable resolve
Silencing the sheep shouldn’t be anyone’s prime or unprimed objective
We exist to be born and born again
Dying a cross we must bear like luxury and libations
We write pretty poems to heal the ugliness inside and outside
We withstand lies and treachery to save our fractured selves
We wrap ourselves in blanket assurances to ready ourselves for the fight of our atypical lives
The touch of your Velvet Elvis is music to my rock and roll ears
I promise not to step on your blue suede shoes
There are three words I will not utter until we’re prepared for sleep and sacrifice, in that order.
I miss you Philip Seymour Hoffman.