Old World Magic

got that feeling
like phonograph needle
finding a vein, feels like that,
plate glass bed sheets,
gypsy woman spinning tales
about what you can't
see in cards and why
we've all got hinges,
everyone rotating
off their axis,
letting dizzy go to your head

so don't treat this
like old world magic
they don't write down
any more,
because you can't hang
from taboos, they'll never
tell you what kind of death
makes the prettiest martyrs,
but some pencil shavings
and a cigarillo, piled up
like sandbags against
the flood is all ready
to leave you ashes