The Cold Wind

The wanting of witches
came bellowing
out of me
like horny heat waves
in the springtime,
tree trunks and their branches
howling for their ancestors,
calling down the
fucking thunder rain,
come drench us
in the night
up into the mourning morning.
And if you don’t understand it,
keep on moving,
you’re fine baby,
hush now
and Ill catch you later
off guard
in your periphery.

The maze’s edges
were getting super fuzzy,
so I hissed at you
cause I felt awkward
and didn’t know
what else to do,
birds were
playing 12 string coffins,
heads were talking nonsense,
and I hated the dollar,
loathe the core senses of it,
smelled like
acid and hospital dying to me,
so no,
I didn’t buy into your
stacked green paper life.

Instead, I wanted to go out and up,
please honey,
take these bones
to a safe house to nestle,
settle down with talking plants
and big beating hearts
in the garden
before the fires came
and sung me to sleep in their smoke.

And the ghosts, yes there still,
gabbing in grunge hallways,
vast and then trivial tales,
quests taken with tequila and pleasure,
songs written at 2 in the morning
driving 95 miles an hour
with windows down roaring,

wailing and weeping to the cold wind.

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