I Grow Old On My Bitterness.

At Six I Lived In A Graveyard Full Of Dolls, Avoiding Myself, My Body, The Suspect In Its Grotesque House.

Now I Am Going Back And I Have Ripped My Hand From Your Hand As I Said I Would And I Have Made It This Far.

I Am Not Lazy. I Am On The Amphetamine Of The Soul. I Am, Each Day, Typing Out The God My Typewriter Believes In.

And The Aura Of You Remains, Remains, Remains...

There Is Rust In My Mouth,the Stain Of An Old Kiss.