I died uneasily,
pursued on the edge of the bed,
restlessly searching.
Stay up late tonight,
pace, boots an impression
of the day I had a problem.
Maintain a watch on the music - it isn't
right, needle on the record,
tempo the heavy feel of despair.
The stylus, key to torment,
startled by another part of you.
Look again,
look again.
We have to dance.
Pay attention with
detached amusement,
reaction a death brag,
complexion bored.
Get acquainted, sweetheart,
the rough buzz of double scotch
an ideal of summer's darling.
The door swings open; register a
shake, the others already in the room,
worldly power, sensational.
Breathe, so long. Arrange this life,
easy without changing course.
Full moon feigned indifference,
illuminates no reason into tears.
Eat again, comforts in the cold surface,
roaring spite rapidly adding figures
to this placid thorn.
Black bourbon, pulsating eye, infra-red
destination - a neon sign possession,
detached reaction.
I just want to take it off.
I should let you know
body and spirit are
still far apart -
I think it would have
turned out this way
sooner or later, trembling negative.
I remember a time I
almost told you what you really want -
remember? Remember?
It's still waiting for you, tender, alone.
We almost looked at each other and
I couldn't even let myself think.
Now I don't feel
what we're doing is the truth.
Are we going to be together?
I almost had you, this way.
Your voice, words written with a cigarette,
love overcome with character,
my secrets on cassette tape - you probably noticed.
The dance, lights low, a strange dream
green with ambient sound - I'm so bored.
You could drive off,
rear brake lights into a
soft tune, intimately plain.
But no; tell me what you noticed.
Let me tell you about this room,
this music, the emotions I don't believe.
I'm going to teach you a lesson now
about empty footsteps and
keys to the night.
I know you saw something
out of frame, a damaged moment.
Say something about this,
the metabolism of silence,
visible momentum.
I heard you in the corner,
heavy perfume,
speaking weak, pale,
lying to establish your composure.
Spin loud, protecting your face.
I know this is gonna hurt you.
Hands white-knuckled,
I've got to write myself
an ecstatic state,
fists stunned into a poem.
Clench the brightening aspiration;
the path has its limits,
slips back sometimes.
My patience is minor, my hurt clear,
only tolerant of need when
there is a second beauty
to its eye.
There's no need to come back
after this.
