i don't give a damn what the preacher said

the night time breeds a certain kind of solace carved into apples by feral gods and left for dead at the high water mark like hope leaving town on the last train a final smokestack drift we talk of marriage in the abstract as if philosophy can gild the knot or cut the ties that bind you wear your blood with insolence blades and bottles we whisper in secret places calling down boredom from the mountains calling down thunder from the smog i wear my blood with affectation carved into pipework by feral children and left to moulder in the margins like hope leaving town bound and gagged a final smokestack shudder we spoke the words with fingers crossed behind our backs behind enemy lines till death us do part but i don’t give a damn what the preacher said