waiting for you

 
 
 
mercy dressed in old
rags, dirty beard, greasy
hands begging for
a half pence  
 
misery loves company
and sends out invites,
puts a dozen kegs on ice
then opens the doors to  
angst and desolation  
 
the pied piper is joyless
 
the rats have discovered  
grind core
 
my dear love
 
     kiss murder goodbye
 
        and look for something  
 
                       far more discrete
 
like a shopping spree in
Paris
 
while you sing your whiplash,  
cocaine nose job  
blues
 
between sheets stuffed  
with the burning flower  
dreams of  
Nagasaki  
 
and when you
finally arrive
home
 
  (a bag of golden
      dope in one hand
           and Kurt's empty
                  shotgun shells  
                    smoking in the other)
 
I will tenderly
kiss you on
the head
 
and ask
 
"How was your
day, my
love."