Autumn Song.

Here is an autumn song, why sad stories hang in smokey air, the full moon being my baby my baby is mean is bad is no one's baby.

It's ok, momma, I'm burning candles and saying my prayers.

This bed is gonna swallow me, too many nights I've laid rough hands to my pillows and ghosts to twist some feathery little vapor out of the darkness, some gourd-faced golem to fill with secrets and lust. We don't lie while we're lusting; I don't, and I speak for the lizards and lightning but not for another dick-swinger.

I won't be home 'til I'm bleeding brains on some holy boulder, black as peat and sweet as honeycomb.

Samson is swinging wild controlled circles with the bleeding jawbone of a jackass, and his hirsute heroics are relegated thusly to a few scraps of paper to incite wars in some future where artists are dead and greed's teeth chew all.

I'll love anyway. There's not much else for us.