This is where I come to bleed

My whorehouse, my church

This place is my sanctuary

My epitaph, my birth

This cradle is my own deathbed

My yearning to succeed

Falling over thorny ground

Where I come to bleed

This mist is crawling round my feet

Clinging to my bones

Purging all those Christian sounds

Merging distant moans

Shamans calling through the beat

Nursing hell-bent needs

Coming down to turn around

Where I come to bleed

This woman’s where I come to feed

My sprawling eight-track mind

Dining out on jimson weed

Exploring womankind

Pissing out green chemicals

Trying not to heed

The warnings emanating from

The place I come to bleed

© Chris Bond — 1988