Gold Fronts

The sun bent down and spoke with the last of the lips

They spoke of hell and things they'd never miss

Bridge shelter and the cold creek bed

That breaks backs and leads eyes down

Until faces drag against the dirt and ears living in that muddy sound

Where the white whales roll just once a year

And the arm feeds the hatchet with an African appetite

Matched machetes sparkle shine

And shape that small-scale guillotine

I've been getting pretty sleeping in these boxes

With those blackened mule faces outside my door

Shouting

Oooohhhhh

The club met the seal and the seal met the dog

That carried the man to the end of the trail

Where they walked down the streets pavement

Was black beneath their feet

I have been having a little trouble with these black glass lungs

And dealing in the man with the gold tooth grin