bad october

I am back to the machine gun
it is gray and ugly outside,
the plateaus obscured
by rain and fog
and the fury of the coastal winds
driven heartward by hot santa anas.
I am back to the machine gun
she is gray like the skies
and the rough paint is chipping
from the underside of her carriage.
the lamp is hot and gold
and we are alone.
please keep lecturing me
there is nothing I need more now
than your brilliant advertisements
of young naivete.
it's becoming more and more evident
that glaring character flaws
are exemplar
of how interesting all lovers are,
but you can all take your double standards
and play the roman fool.
I'd rather be an old man
than be counted useless and hollow
living for a day that will never arrive,
pretending to be content.
and so I
sidelined by the culture
not cynical enough for her tastes
too much of a bastard for her's
clinging to my tattered banner
"at least I have principles"
but they're fading fast
and the jacobins are putting me on trial
for the sins of yesterday.
I'm sure if Marat knew that it would end this way
he would've drowned himself in his bathtub.
after enough of the same faces
the effects of gravity become
much more apparent.
and after hearing all their graven exploits,
I can only think
this is not what I wanted
these are not the stories I want to tell
every sordid detail
propagated for posterity.
is it too late?
it drives me to filth and embarrassment
lying under the same grey sky
I wake to the afternoon sun
and start the long walk
back to the land of the living
delivering apologies on the way.
gone is my era of steak and eggs
midnight coffee and rainy drives
to be replaced by that of
2 AM confessions and clenched fists.
eyes too tired to weep
for the lack of honest friend or lover,
and the crimes of which
I am guilty.