People say I drink too muchBut it's not enough to make the pain go awayThis painThis never ending painIt makes me wonder if there's any point in livingYour useless talkThe rubbish you speakAnd the unwanted company I get from you and your stupid friendsMake me want to live for somethingEveryday I walk aloneAlone in the darkAlone in these empty streetsIn which the darkness consumes the tiniest ray of lightDrunk I walk alone in these streetsYou always seem to find meAlways worrying where I am
Is what I feelWatching people whom I love forget meIs what I fearPutting the blame on myself instead of blaming the predatorsIs what I do everydayI dance on broken glass bearfoot as I try to balance my lifeMy sadness and fearIs what I ate for lunch
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.