Goodbye in a Minor Chord

A satyr minus horns,
A rose without her thorns,
A poor man’s son,
The obvious one,
Homogenized and hung.
The dog-woman grunts,
“Ambivalent cunts,
La Loba will heal,
Whomever you steal.
To justify mythos,
To murder the cantos,
Of surrogate dreams,
Of ant-ridden beams.”
I could tell you a story,
A tale made of teeth.
A yarn that unravels,
Like a drunk Christmas wreath,
Of bitter psychosis,
That stalks like a cat,
Of feeling ridiculous,
Stupid and fat.
But if you know a bank,
Where the wild thyme grows,
Then I want you to do it.
I want you to go.