Is It You

In ragged little shelters
where deities huddle up on the drink
their fickle little whispers
of who would drown first
In the nasty dampness
of the misty back alley
praying to spots
their eyes have made from fog lights
In the isolated cell
where your comfort is the echo
of the snap of surgical tubing
and the slow release of madness
In the backseat of some rocket
blasting bass beat through the speakers
the guts clutch the rib cage
you have to wonder if it's you