we confused the table for an awkward place to sitncatching flies inside our mouthsnand beating air with both our fistsnsounding off like clarionsnaround the room we moved the windnin absolute and organizing wavesnin line with both our lipsnwe pealed our fingers off the tablenscratched the bones for quite a bitnassuming everything that laid there deadnwas there collecting lintnin a more ordinary fashionnthan my old and tired skinnfamiliar to the blemished woodnthat this here table was made withnnyou'd like to smash the organs npumping breathing bleed ni'm quite sure why this morningni'm still half asleepncold carcass frameworkntorn apart as piece by piecenour brains were half connectednbroken at the seams,ndo you still dream?nnwhen the smoke cleared all these angelsnwere the devils that you dreadnassigning places for your soulnwith anchors on a molten bednand if the screams of apprehension ndon't appease the incubusnhe'll reach right in and pump your lungsnand clank your heart with his bare handsnnoh, if life was on a tabletop...n