The Lonesome Crumblin' Castle Blues

Listen kid. I thought about you the other day, around four in the afternoon, when I was picking through the old bathroom, looking for anything the flames hadn’t gotten.

Underneath the meringue of melted ceiling, in the lonesome cool of our own ruins: I was standing exactly where that son of a bitch had been burning, where he’d been flashing his evil grin and scraping his fiery jagged nails along our walls a few days before. Right where I used to towel you off after your bath, I flicked a couple of Wintergreen Altoids down in the moat between my gums and my cheeks/ trying to get a pine forest to grow up fast back in my face/ so I wouldn’t have to sniff the acrid smoke anymore. It’s a bad odor, baby. A bad, bad smell.

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