the carnival of ash.If in time of flowers there should come a waltzing hour whena watercolor caravan breaks through a grove of charcoal trees and from the boughs you see some tiny wizened fingers flash the secret skies a sign at morning,then take care to bend the sunbeams, shush the bed springs, dust me from the dirty corner, sweep my bones, cajole my feet, for the king has called off melancholy.It's a carnival of ash.If in time of needles you are dancing with black beetles and you hear a velvet beating from the heart within the groundget away from torpid thinking pay no mind to time or costmove your mouth to sound the callthis is the carnival of ash.Hear the wicked little nettles pine for places in processions. Here the mandarin orange doctors scrape lapels and scrub their noses. They sell potions disproportioned with a disease for every cure, and little more, their pockets lined with plastic, for that bit you buy but never see, so equable and agreeable they are. Here too mu
chit-chatIt is no kind of life.drowning out the drone of the alarm clock.We are lepers in the bathroom,gouging out rotten eyes,rubbing off rotten noses,rinsing out our tasteless mouths with tasteless water.A whole new day, a whole new you.Life is chit-chat.Then we slide into history, coffee drugged.A faceless brushstroke in an unfinished paintingby an unknown artistthat will end up in the attic,while we end underground.
When you are OldWhen you are oldOn those not so brightDecember evenings,Setting your sad sunsetAgainst Gods black and blue vanityDo not forgetthose late nights, brooding,Standing, with our stiff legsTouching finding madness inThe method of red and wine and stars.Burning Love's sad book withouta look back...at the ashes on our faces.Tore another page into the fire, Another page into the fire,And there was Ash in your hair and in my hair and I kissed you then,Another page into the fire.