The poor man's Jane Birkin

It's a poem

Absence of foresight

Nothing is there

Searched for some recompense

Her cold distant stare



My auburn haired dream girl

Her father had wrecked

Things come full circle

but don't quite connect



No longer disguised

Love's a lost franchise

This hardened heart

Lay on crass wax paper,

For I've seen through the eyes

which bled through the skies

a brilliant hue

Of worldly uninterest.



Constantly changing

like seasons she plays

my terminal heartache

That's measured in days

I watch the blood spread

as it drips in the sink-



Praying for a skeleton's kiss

upon this unending

feeling.