I've Grown Tired Of Love You Are

In A Dream You Are Never Eighty.

So I Won't Hang Around In My Hospital Shift, Repeating The Black Mass And All Of It. I Say Live, Live Because Of The Sun, The Dream, The Excitable Gift.

Unless I Can Shake Myself Free Of My Dog, My Flag, Of My Desk, My Mind, I Find Life A Bit Of A Drag. Not Always, Mind You. Usually I'm Like My Frying Pan Useful, Graceful, Sturdy And With No Caper, No Plan.

We Talked Death With Burned-up Intensity, Both Of Us Drawn To It Like Moths To An Electric Light Bulb. Sucking On It!

I Think It Will Be A Miracle If I Don't Someday End Up Killing Myself.