I heard Bukowski the other day
with his harsh drunken voice
echoing in my ears
strumming my heart
telling me to "go all the way"

A switch was clicked
My mind was intoxicated
I felt him near
pointing his boney finger
at my noise
"Go all the way"

As simple as it sounds
those 4 words shadow a journey
that'll forever scar itself on your heart
and engrave itself in your mind

My surroundings just got clearer
your glasses just sharpened all the ***** edges
that were parasiting their way in your mind
slowly eating you away, feeding on the only
life form out there,

"...and you'll do it, despite rejection
and the worst odds "
It's this knocking against your skull
this tapping that's getting louder and louder
"you'll do it"

This lustful feeling for whatever it is
that your body yearns for
that seductive pull
your lover does to drag you closer

"Do it, do it, do it
all the way"
he says

last night a blackbird
singing his heart out for Spring
none paused to listen

After everything, you throw your body into the fire and I put my teeth to your neck. A fire of your own creation
                                                        ­               (coming from your mouth);
teeth of my own creation
                                               (coming from my veins).

If time makes a monster of all of us, I hope it makes the two of us sirens – I am so tired of being a vampire. I am so tired of loving a dragon. I am ready to drag warships down to the bottom of the sea and I am ready to stop drowning.

You don’t bite back, baby.
                                                You never bite back.

I say I can burn in this desire and you say Oh, you will. Okay, I'm sorry I forgot to lock the doors but this fire motif is getting to me. Splash my face with water, throw me in the deep end, turn these flames to smoke. Turn that smoke to air, let me breathe it on in.

Let me do that for you.

If time makes a monster out of all of us, I hope it makes us immortal. I hope it makes us gods. I hope you never stop saying yes, never stop biting words off the tip of my tongue.

The weeping
of the guitar begins.
Wineglasses shatter
in the dead of night.
The weeping
of the guitar begins.
It's useless
to hush it.
It's impossible
to hush it.
It weeps on monotonously
the way water weeps,
the way wind weeps
over the snowdrifts.
It's impossible
to hush it.
It weeps for things
far, far away.
For the sand of the hot South
that begs for white camellias.
Weeps for arrows without targets,
an afternoon without a morning,
and for the first dead bird
upon the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart gravely wounded
by five swords.