When I write long songs I will create them out of others’ books of poetry, in this case from Refuge by Belle Waring

If you walk through the fog and wind up
dead don’t blame you. Everyone knows fog
is hurting. Everyone knows fog is full of himself,
Jump back. It’s Morley and he knows a good fog when he sees one,
along the Pennsylvania turnpike, home from college, show me your
Blue Mountain. I’m under the hill, over you, bawl me a chorus.
I stepped in front of a dump
and bought it a drunk. Too many of us at the bar, buy me
an apartment, Daddy, and call me Sylvie.
Whack of panic: What if the boy
forgets the condoms! What is the remedy for what if. It used to be song,
now it’s randomization, it’s hits, whatever sort of addict must I be
to bring you back into this. Lift the veil, we’re all depressed.
Rust. Gold. Sand. Thank everyone for their contributions
to the world of poetry words. I don’t know what poem I could write
without them. Sarcasm will get me no where. I’ve never been a comedic
poet like Dante. I stare at myself in the page, I wrote all last night and sparked
myself awake. Stay the coffee stains with maze.
You wore a clean white shirt and I wrote on it in permanent marker
every time you swore you’d stop cheating. I never believed you
but for your sake I pretended. Miss Monica full of chiggers and I pretended.
“It’s the combat zone,” the cop said, a Portuguese flair to his voice.
I begged him to tell me nothing, the truth a blast of butter popcorn I’d soaked
with too much sugar, ruined. My cat was dead. My cat is dead.
The café with the hotwire website domain name was telling me more important
news was happening, I’d stepped on too many baristas to be served. This was after
we got sober. This was after our tumultuous love bar. I serve no one now.
My life was the moment when the train breaks period. The dot on the snow
millions caught blood. Engineers in the machineroom of blood.