Crimson Road

my headache lives in your basement, painting x’s on the faces, in the magazines, that come for free, on the pages that free the streets, black-and-white photo, red underline, images folding in section five, this waiting room’s a little too bright, for my eyes that try to hide, on the table electric holiday, all the faces that we’ll never see, black light one: conversation, we’ll take five for indignation, my errant mind has left the building, and our white lies are quickly turning black.