November is a mausoleum, grey as closet dust.
An automatic needs a guy It’s Monday; “What’s to do?” Open fire and spray some hell Kill a crowd or two
We are acid in his face He’s disfigured in his rage
I tried to write a prayer. I didn’t have success.
The water; the land The kiss; the embrace The blood and the bread
You look so pitiful now, scrutinizing rheumy eyed, your mantle all in tatters.