the eighteenth beware of this year

trust your instincts and your guts,
boys and girls, ghouls and fools,
because when you get the slightest hint
that love is out of bounds,
it is already on a bus out of town.

there is no rake or snake
to clean up the leaves or given venom
or debris left over from the storm
that swarms inside your heart,
because the windswept edge
of the river is empty aside from the litter
of letters written under
the influence of love's letdowns.

what do you want from me
usually means go fuck off,
but if you sneeze or cough
you may miss the point,
so try to stick to the knife
and just dance on ahead
alone and find a new home.