resisting martyrdom

i.
killing inside so tired of self this one
you and your stupid prescience you
took your eyes away just when I could
see in don't think I don't feel like hell
so tired of self, dug out of the unnatural whole
werewolves of london on JR's stereo
flashing past going crash what would you know?
why don't you tell me? what's your damn secret?
that I'm out here outside your window
peeping tom got an eye out but no under-
standing what can you tell me? that you could
but you can't so you won't so you
don't know and maybe tomorrow or ten
years or post death or in another lifetime
in the meantime I feel like I'm on the
spit, circling cold fire—you glow and I
go slowly mad—what kind of life is this?

ii.
too much useless coffee
useless beer
just stupid guitar work
you and your malaguena
in shadows
dying killing softcore dope
walking the bare dirt of crucifixion
old saints new sinners
fucked this time

Lots of bad catholic remonstrance here. Nod to Joni Mitchell (cold fire). The turning and turning one tends to do when one is trying to interpret the deliberately obtuse statements of a lover who is involved with various other threads of existence and who is loath to actually "say" anything for fear it will hang in the air, like some sort of dead animal, rotting away. Of course I'm sure she's completely different now. ??? John Ranyard lived at Scarritt for awhile. He had built his stereo and it had excellent sound. Warren Zevon was big at that time. Of course Werewolves is also a reference to the book, Werewolf of Heartbreak that I was writing, essentially about Alison and her recent past.