masks

some of us are born with eyes in the backs of our heads
where the background black noise can be enjoyed instead
the gore hid behind the cold curtain of hide
drips with the makings of makers inside
the black masses twitching in tune with the tension
the burning man stuck in animated suspension
the dog doesn't tell me, I do it myself
straight from the mouth of the mouth of my personal hell
the wheel machine he saw twists in the heavens
transfixed down the well in eye sets of seven
she's swinging and swimming with me in the next dimension
I'll teach her the good touch I'll be the redemption