This is what she always said:
Melt the acid fire into eyedrops.
Start your iris wars.
Burn the milky terror haze.
Indecently expose those reborn eyeballs
to the naked, unblinking world.

The day you finally understood,
the sun was too low on the horizon.
At the station you were told
not to look away. This is not the
movies, they said, as if that explained
anything. Not all endings are happy
in real life, they said, as if that explained
anything. You thought about educating them,
but you were terrified of the coming silence.

The moment is timeless. It will never sleep
with anything but the present.
The moment is a snapshot. It will always be
Polaroid,
fading,
unreal.

Baby Jane didn't see it coming.
There are cigarettes in her bed, or
the smoking remains. She kept the
fire too close to her heart. Watch
her ashes dance. Watch her ashes
spell out "PCP". You are what you eat,
or so they say. Watch her ashes sprinkled,
angel dust on blackened bones.

You were told not to look away.
Now your eyes are branded,
open and shining.

Keep the landlines burning.
You never know what comes
round the bend.

This is not the movies, they repeat.
You dial out, positive. The black
sheets cover the past. All there is
left is a future, smelling like burning tar.
This cannot be what life is, you whisper.
Her ghost is wordless.

Keep the landlines burning.
You never know when everything
will end.