Come moonbathe with me, my pale memory--
touch skin to frigid stone.
Hush-- let the raindrops intone the lullaby.
Sink back down, far from harm;
subside and gaze into the cavernous sky
caught-- in my automatic arms.
When you watched the bloody sky
you avoided the look in my eyes.
The moon was not for you:
deep in the summer's decay,
you preferred the gaudy
death throes of the day--
but when the shadow fingers twined
like psychedelic vines
up the flat grantie,
you had to face me.
The end is near.
Come sing with me, my pale memory--
swim that stale symphony.
By choice, you are so shallow as a whole,
that as you founder in the void,
you won't understand what I stole.
If there is a god,
he hates me to weave this
pinpricked belveteen sky;
as though they'll never see you again,
there are fears in my eyes;
for if your sunset flees my love,
he has forsaken us.
His sun is dead;
I killed him with my satin touch,
stain tainted his setting.
We haven't the strength
to ignite the blackness,
or dissolve in vitriol.
We hope, but in this dark,
there is no light
to redeem ourselves-- in the end,
there is no meaning to life.
You let me fly awhile;
I'm but a man-child.
That cold fatemonger,
stripped of tactful excuses,
whoring sex's uses and abuses,
let me soar awhile;
I'm but a man-child,
smoking out the window,
tapping ashes in the night,
in the nieghbor's house a white light--
through a red curtain;
Everything is an end.
