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.