No Wonder.... I got the Blues

Fool, Illusion
is the cross you hang upon.
Buddha, Allah, Jah Rastafari, and Jesus.

No one hears or cares. Open your throat,
taste dust, maggot soul,

broke, joker who played

his final hand. Now you fold,
fly into abyssfulness, lonely lark,
dark melody, pursuing pleasure
like dead riverbeds crawl

through canyon-land.
Gather no moss, slippery stone,
roll over into turpitude.
This is your home. Alone,
you've made it your own,
filled with a million things,
yet old shack empty.
Her scent distant,
faint in the afternoon.
Time is ticking,
but it's not on your side
Sisyphus pushing stones

toward Midnight,

every notion tumbles back

into mourning light.
Love barks, love bites.

Bye-bye.
Hole in the sky.
Hole in your fossa ovalis. 

Do you still

wanna 

sing?