I hear your drunken silken voice
calling in the ally, blue black angles here define the shadows of telephone wires into a small cubist canyon.
The problem is we're trusting other people to know what they're talking about when they don't.
Burberry Blursday booms into funhouse mirrors and I refract into myself.
"I want you to never forget me."
"Where are you, Love?"
I do the tango of doubt
passing tropical fish of painted boys not sure whether they try to find the way back to home if it ever existed at the Aquarium Hotel.
They ache so mightily.
There's nothing I wouldn't do to find you.
I can hear you calling like the voice of tomorrow from a fresh-cut grave.
Tell me nothing really is in it. It's just a wave.
Underneath the ocean's golden glare nighttime is fear manifested in a militant stare.
Watching my shadow hoping no shadow follows to the doorway of destiny.
Are you? Will you? Calling me here, soldier?
His guts spill golden fragments of light.
Each time a window sees my reflection
it shatters. Overcompensation is the tell.
Never over-tell your story,
put emphasis on your skill. Know your free will.
It might shine like the silver of the moon.
You're just a murky shadow here
the only time is now.
The name of the game is survival. Odd man out.
You found yourself in a bar
long mahogany rails
off that skidrow wrong side of town
in the tourist district neon-lit facade lights that mix like a cocktail of pills
blue, red, yellow, white flashing beacons.
And you're wonderin' how this could be the place you end up?
Jim Beam? Bombay?
Sometimes you think you got it
then you know you don't. You are lost. I am lost. I lost the trail off junkies' needles stuck darts in the ground.
Off from the carcass
of the three-month dead rat
off from the dead squirrel or your sense of smell.
And you are wondering beside the graffiti
"live long and prosper"
beyond the dumpster
spilled to the ground,
a decent dapster bar
with a legitimate bartender
the green-skinned man
in the black plastic suit.
You're sorry that you thought it
now you swear you won't.
Gin Tonic chronic
It was a tragedy of bad strategy
a murky shadow
only time is now.
Don't think it.
Don't think it.
Playing semantic games with a prostitute.
A balloon inflated
A balloon inflated on your ego.
You're floating like a Macy's float
above this crowd roaring
with the sound of a crankshaft
The soles of your shoes crunching into broken glass.
The sound of your vomit as it splats your ass.