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.Indians s**ttered on dawn's highway bleedingGhosts crowd the young c***d's fragile eggshell mind.blood in the streets in the town of new havenblood stains the roofs and the palm trees of veniceblood in my love in the terrible summerbloody red sun of phantastic L.A.blood screams her brain as they chop off her fingersblood will be born in the birth if a nationblood is the rose of mysterious unionblood on the rise, it's following me.Indian, Indian what did you die for?Indian says, nothing at all.Gently they stir, gently riseThe dead are newborn awakeningWith ravaged limbs and wet soulsGently they sigh in rapt funeral amazementWho called these dead to dance?Was it the young woman learning to play the ghost song on her baby grand?Was it the wilderness c***dren?Was it the ghost god himself, stuttering, cheering, chatting blindly?I called you up to anoint the earthI called you to announce sadness falling like burned skinI called you to wish you wellTo glory in self like a new monsterAnd now. Her nipples were as big around as silver dollars, and they formed dark circles under the lacy fabric. I tried to reach around her back and unhook her bra.But she suddenly twisted away and bounced out of reach. She sat up on the edge of the bed with her back towards me.I pulled myself next to her. "What's wrong?" I said.She sighed deeply. "I should go."I ran my finger down the ridge of her backbone. "No, don't go. Stay here with me tonight." I prodded the clasp of her bra with my fingertip. It had a double hook - it would be a simple task to unfasten it."I can't." She reached down and picked her blouse up off the floor."Why not?" It's my husband. He is supposed to call."I sat up beside her. She turned her head slightly away and wouldn't look at me. I bumped my bare shoulder against hers. My erection tented my slacks."Why don't you call him tomorrow?" I took her hand and put it in my lap. Her fingers tightened around my prick, and she finally looked at me and smiled slyly.But her smile.
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