there is no innocence anymore
this much i know for sure

but god my pillows smell of you
and christ my hands make love to you

with just the slightest brushing touch
that i can no longer grant


there is no innocence anymore
there is only the greek chorus of truth

telling me its gotta end now
that real love has a taste not quite so toxic

i cant see you and i do not want to think
the only thing i want to do is drink


there is no innocence anymore
the touching of skins doesnt bring bliss but more and more questions heaped

like
am i better just drifting off to sleep
and
god why is it only now that you want me
and
christ are you only trying to own me like a thing
a thing
that you dont want but no more want to see set free

joan of arc

now the flames they followed joan of arc
says leonard cohen
in his darkest voice
with his coldest metal
hands


and who chooses to
alienate themselves
so entirely?


and who chooses to
burn for schitzophrenic
visions?


but they must have been
the most real things,
to her,
the most real things--


the loneliest girl in the park
feeding the ducks
with no pretty face
and no charm-bracelet lover
linked to her arm


just joan the virgin
all alone
and nothing bright
in the sky