In the rain
Outside in the rain  
Staring through
the wooden shutters
In almost darkness
Brown wooden shutters
With dust entrusted to them
And he see's the man
see's the man with the dog
The man with the dog staring
With sunken eyes
He watches
He spies
With dead sunken eyes
Sallow eyes
Glassy eyes
And then a grand fear is felt
All over the body  
The man with the dog and the sunken eyes
He listens
He see's through dust entrusted shutters
Looks at him outside
In the rain
In the dark
And suddenly a great feeling of hopelessness comes upon the earth
And does not seem to leave
He does not go away
And the rain pours
And the man with the dog and the sunken eyes stares
And he won't go  
He won't leave him alone
He smiles
And watches
And won't go away
Won't go away
Won't leave
And In the dark
Nothing changes  
the rain does pour
And the man does stare
And he does watch
And life does go on
And nothing changes

Little Red Riding Hood walked through the woods
Singing and swinging her bag of baked goods
When out of the brush leapt a wolf with a smile
And some florist’s advice for the innocent child.
So off went the girl, picking bunches of daisies
While Wolf raced ahead with a step none too lazy.

Then at Grandmother’s door he knocked and said
“Let me in dear Grandmother, it’s your little Red."
So with grandmother’s blessing he let himself in
And ate up the oldest of little Red’s kin.  
Then Little Red Riding Hood came through the door
With nary a clue of what was in store.
After noting her “grandmother’s” ears, nose, and teeth
Into Wolf’s gullet she went with a shriek.

As the transvestite wolf began snoring like thunder,
Along came a huntsman, who cut his belly asunder.
Out came Red Riding Hood, Grandmother too
While Wolf, so oblivious, kept sleeping right through.
With a few heavy stones, a needle and thread
Wolf, far too full, finally woke then dropped dead.  

After a party of baked goods and wine,
The huntsman gave Red a great wolf pelt so fine.  
“Thank you, dear huntsman,” said our little Red,  
“But I’d rather skin wolves on my lonesome instead.  
I know things now, of these beasts and their wiles
I’ll give them a lesson, with blood and with style.
Teach me to stalk, to chase and to shoot
The best huntress I’ll be - and the cutest, to boot."

The huntsman, he roared with his big booming laughter.
In a voice that rose straight up to the rafters:
“Why little girl, have you a taste for the hunt?
You’re better off sewing, though I hate to be blunt.”
But little Red pouted, and threatened to cry
So the huntsman gave in, with a shrug and a sigh.

The huntsman- he was a formidable teacher.
Now Red lives in fear of no living creature.
Today, when Red Riding Hood walks through the woods
She carries bags of new, furry goods.  
And when out of the brush leaps a wolf with a smile,
She smiles right back: “You’ve picked the wrong child."

I still remember you
Oh so well
On such a haze of a cold winter's night
Where you and I did lie side by side
in such Solemn sweet tranquility      
Perhaps two brains elsewhere would do
And I stared forward at the dull moonlight
that snuck in through cracks In the dusty shutters
And soon I myself fell into a slumber
Soft eyelids melting with fireball and the midnight chime

Things had slowly changed
As mind to spirit slipped to song
you did rise from where you lay
Taking leave in low light
I peered through half shut eyes
As clicking chimes and doors you swung
Pierced the empty but perfect silence

You left me quite terribly alone
And with your absence as my fear
I rose myself and slowly hummed
To tail your ghostly shadow

An hour gone in your twisted maze
Walking barefoot through the night
I found you on your knees
Beneath the Idlewood tree
crying scarlet tears
sunken down in prayer
Nightgown soaked in mud
I watched you breath
So heavily
So desperately and true
Your face clear of any other colour
But dark red and warmest blue

As we lay there
Side by side
Your arm around my head  
You must have heard the screams
That came out of my own lips instead

And That was it...  
an ever growing chain of chances
Each shrunken sick in manners
down to the pitiful  size of mud dancing bugs
Finally foiled and boiled alive
in blood soaked tribal chants
to nothing but some cruel joke  
In which I will craft myself some hazardous home
But with You
Your handsome and enchanting charm
Always and forever squirming unpleasantly  
Framing My holy and collapsible sense of purpose
Leading me to be caught in those crosswinds
And with not one pathway left
To lead to another
Yes
That is it...