Patricia in rooms of song vain abortion

I detuned my guitar again
& stringslit my wrists for the kicks
then I kicked out the whole goddamn
sappy string section
then drunk a whole liter of
heavy
sandpaper
danced naked like a mountain
faded
hermit
w/ masks of Adam's last
damnation...

& I tried to write a tune for you
yet still couldn't come close
to your
essence...

yes - I admit I failed...
not the first time this time
though...

Am fits all the colors of passion
& it's mighty good for tango's
first
bars...

how can one make strawberries
sound so
hopeless...
or silver spurs so mighty black
while on my papers
suicide's pink fluffy flakes
fall on mouths of babies
like wedding rice & dimes
& death is your Santa
Claus
here...

one goddamn fiddler was still hidin'
in my closet...
thought I'd murder him for his
optimistic
tone
perhaps he's the culprit...

don't know how he survived
the major minor kick-out...

you should've seen me in my
Kinski
mode...

or I'll pass the fiddler some absinthe
so he finally breaks his fingers
& heart
to sound real enough for my
pain

or perhaps treat the bastard
some
coke
or stinky razors
& Beelzebub's
socks

but the song was still not so lonely
it still was
too sweet
& contained the very last flavors
of Patricia's hazel hair...
& the very last curves
of Patricia's cirrus body...
& the very last cloudlines, frozen,
of Patricia's iris face...

too sweet
I thought
I've got to forget this woman
& focus on my
barbarian
duties...

find some dust to rely on
folks are not good at this...

a massacre's needed here...
a massacre's needed fast...

lord, how I wish you were here..

to witness the rooms
of song
vain
abortion
& the idiot
who fell for you
in the Autumn