Dear October,
Bathing me in a full moon
Supersized and the colour of
McDonald's cheese.

Bright through the thick curtains
Of my bedroom, where I rest in
Sober solitude.
A dim red, even through heavy

Eyelids.
Dear October, breathe your faintly
Frosted scents through my open
Window, leave my stellar

Night light on.
I need no fingertips caressing my
Face goodnight.
I have friends like little planets.

Drunk in the morning watching
The tail feathers of a magpie not
Being twigs within the yellow
Womb of swaying autumn
Bushes.

They've stopped burning churches and
Ramming knives into one another.

Now they visit the woods without corpse
Paint and disposable cameras,

Eating Norwegian mushrooms around
Fires, boomblasters blasting

'De Mysteriis dom Sathanas' out into
Pinetree forests.

Media turned Black Metal into "satanism".
Inspired the weak.

One scratched the back of the other as newspapers
Sold more than ever, and

Small egos acted beyond their sizes, trying and
Dying for coverage.

Sometimes I feel the remains of vikings,
Battle worn and anti-christian still, after death,

Moaning: No. It was never just for
Show.

They've stopped burning churches now.
Perform with unpainted faces.

One final
Protest.

The devil is ink on cheap paper.
Money and newspapers are barely wood.

Some say they burn like old Norwegian churches.
Others just like their music raw and real.

Your Happiness is your own responsibility.

Let's make an effort to age this sadness for 16 years
Will it hold weight then?
Will it be a tangible thing that you can hold, and hug and touch?
Will it have a taste of metallic blood or simply smell like the musty wood of forgotten time?
Let's bottle it away
Give it time to mature
And maybe one day we can both sample the fruits of this labor

I poured a double
Try to forget you a while
I'll be back again

Tonight's bourbon just fuels the anger
and you're all ******* *******
squatting in dilapidated houses
looking for your next score of *****,
drugs, ******, and freedom.

I support bluegrass music
Slit your wrist with a banjo string
Play me that beautiful country twang

The moonlight trips
Over the still lough
And the sounds of the night
Are silenced with awe.
She is the priestess,
Listening to confessions
Bred on the dark side
Of the moon.
Absolution is found
In her purifying light.

I don't know that I believe in fate
Or angelic intervention
Or providence
Yet you are in my life
Which is a miracle that grows
With the passing of each day