October Nights Lyrics 2018 reading

This 2018 reading of October Nights Lyrics

is dedicated to D. Glover. (1984-2017)

He goes where eagles dare.



October Nights Lyrics


No, it’s never too much darker

than this dusky side of late October.

The Moon hums sillily on the sides

of slumbering edifices, declaring willingly

the nature of her vamp metaphysics.

The first fog ghosts steal through gorges and under

bridges as our fingers move through

their freshly shampooed hair.

There’s a mischief on this air. 

Callow ghouls

stride and stagger

along the crowded

pedestrian streets;

flippant fairies

vivisect the sidewalks;

vampires with plastic

teeth transact

with their bank accounts

crossing their fingers,

sticking out their tongues.

They curse their invisible gods.

Behind Cheshire Cat

eyes and eyebrows painted to

outrageous angles,

underdeveloped faces hide crack

infested minds.  Lingering

on pouty tragi-comedy lips,

that condemnablest fear— of unknown.


I said no,

no, it’s never too much darker

than this dusky side of late October.

Only they truly tremulous dare supplicate

at Alters of Chance and Change, dare

lift a prayer to preserve those shallow memories,

re-live them once more, ever one

time more, and so, ascend

to inalterable Eden.  While we,

the wiser, wisend damned

left behind this Day of the Dead Eve

cursed with myth-making arts of memory, will

stumble on and stumble on and stumble on.

While we turn keys and juggle dice, they

dance to an unconquerable, sugar-coated rhythm!—

let them play, I say, at immortality.

I envy them not.

For we know first tossed spades

closing a close friend’s death, know,

unaccroachably our failures; know of

diving from cliffs into different seas, and

rocketing through and beyond the atmosphere

toward endless numbers of empty infinities. 


I said no,

no, it’s never too much darker

than this dusky side of late October.

Dressed as their most disconsolable desires,

ever greedy as first suckled,

candy-gobblers pain unto

the French word for bread.

We know, soberly, that distinction,

possess the instinct to retain,

and aspire to know totally;

our pen ink’s read; our desires

known, if only as unattainable.

Gloaming arises, morning mounts,




Questions often answered then seemed notionless—

lightning remained motionless—

the tide thundered, oceanless:

acorns yet crushed

— underlined twice.

And repeats,

acorns which

have yet

to be crushed

— underlined twice.

Yet how I enjoy their crushing.

Each age of excess

soon descends.

They will soon enjoy

inaccurately remembering.


candles sputter out.

One less roll down

the hill.

                    Another year,

                              another night…



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