Nov. 1st, 2007

November

Nov. 1st, 2007 10:17 am
jack_babalon: (Default)

November

No shadow
No stars
No moon
No care
November
It only believes
In a pile of dead leaves
And a moon
That's the color of bone

No prayers for November
To linger longer
Stick your spoon in the wall
We'll slaughter them all

November has tied me
To an old dead tree
Get word to April
To rescue me
November's cold chain

Made of wet boots and rain
And shiny black ravens
On chimney smoke lanes
November seems odd
You're my firing squad
November

With my hair slicked back
With carrion shellac
With the blood from a pheasant
And the bone from a hare

Tied to the branches
Of a roebuck stag
Left to wave in the timber
Like a buck shot flag

Go away you rainsnout
Go away, blow your brains out
November firing squad
November

~Tom Waits
jack_babalon: (Default)
I sit on the stoop of the Witch House with a pocket full of bite sized candies, dolling them out to the procession of minature witches, ninjas, pirates and princesses that amble just ahead of their adult chaperons. Here they come: House to house, lawn to lawn, door to door they go - all toothy smiles and big eyes unblinking. Across the street the neighbors have rigged up a motion detector so that when the kids approach their porch a ghostly wail and rattling chain goes off. The sound effect is on a loop though and a non-stop Vincent Price cackle reverbetates across the street with a tinny echo.Read more... )

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