Who conjured dreams for the devil when he fell in hell?
He slept well because he knew there is no hell in hell.

I do not know how I am cold around your burning
violin—a song is but fire for those who dwell in hell.

You are glowing like an angel lit by a red-light district.
Beg, borrow, bribe, or steal—prayers do not sell in hell.

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. Yell
for California when there’s fire in heaven, call to book a hotel in hell.

Moon swells silver tides, a ventriloquist of the night. You aren’t able
to recall slivers of our dream? Don’t worry, it will ring a bell in hell.

Could you love a shell to death so it bombs in benedictions?
Kill the infidels if that helps you sleep, they will live well in hell.

An illusion is truth untouched of pain. Inside how many names can I lose
myself? Eventually all words waste magic—no one can spell in hell.

If I choose to be a prisoner it would be as the hum of your lungs.
Dying is not music nor god, the dead warn from their cell in hell.

I dried up your body’s water, so why are you compelled to forgive rivers?
“Your white womb, wet poems, it’s all here—including your smell—in hell.”

I live between sacrifice and shelter, come out when it’s dark enough
for sunrise. Convince me to leave. No, Shannan, there is no farewell in hell.