Virgin Clarity of Cocktails

The awful purity of the fresh blood that paints stains into our virgin whites and martyr reds.

Those banners in the air won't lose their colors.

They have no need to drop and shed as they find no shame in the beautiful young boy's open head.

We blow kisses to the north wind that launches red letters further.

Morning rivers are always clogged with skulls and they'll never concede to clear until the killers drown.

Now our beast has cemented a pillar behind the bleeding coins of the good men.

Our stakes are packaged as cocktail sticks.

While liberty tears her voice box which relaxes the children in sleep under the night air.