The hounds are at my door wanting to claw out my eyes
I say to myself “this must be it, this is how a poor man dies.”
I think about the killings, the murder of all things true and decent
the ancient ones, the innocent, the old, the new, the recent
I lay down on my side and try to get some rest
and try not to think about what’s up next.
There is decay, there is loneliness, there is waiting, glimpse of hope
people will hang themselves with anything, I conclude, if given enough rope
I look around for signs, for indications that the tuneless, ceaseless thunder
will forge its will upon me, grab my head and push me under
There’s always this contemplation, thought, even as I’m wounded and perplexed
that I know more than any other living being about what’s up next.
It’s got me thinking, if twisted, unseen tears of sorrow
will let me keep what’s left of things, at least until tomorrow
I wonder if it can be left for someone else to sweep up, mix in some grit and dirt with it
so for now I can sing and dance beneath the stars, and even get to flirt with it.
I remembered my mother who suffered for me, in my hunger made me eat
and wondering about what’s up next will not help me to my feet.
A storm is brewing, not the one you think, it rolls, in plasticine and dough
where the captains and the legislators cannot and dare not go
Go ahead and ask me about the hill, that falls into the sea
if you have to ask me, go on ask it, but don’t ask it just of me.
There’s a gold cadenza waiting, from an ancient cherished text
while I sit and quietly contemplate what’s up next.
It’s got me thinking, wondering, if I stare at the abyss
and cast my dreams towards it, to a place that I won’t miss
There are scars for sure, I can live with those, I’ll lift up my skirt and show you
there’s nothing here to harm you, disappoint you, shock you, break you, throw you
There is a knocking at the door, my next steps are weak but true
and all the while I’m thinking about the next time I’m with you.