A curtain sways without breeze,
touching a grimoire of the dead,
where shadows never reach,
her bucket of bones…
My darling Clementine,
looking for Darth Vader.
As the candle bleeds black wax,
even with a tourniquet stretching
its neck, gone to sweet, into
the chamber pot of night…
My darling Clementine,
looking for Darth Vader.










