|en passant, those muffled heaps of spring|
My beard's not as grey as the orange in your rug You say you'd like these glasses broken but your mouth is kind of dumb It just keeps right on talking and there's nowhere I can run Lets listen to the stars fall out lets walk hand in hand I was blessed by heaven but born too high I ran with the martyrs I lived to die my futures gone and my past lives passed I'm unequivocal a bargain a matchless fool with a goners gasp Everything that's looking good and feeling kind is now the color blue it thinks its very reasonable despite its point of view Everyone that voted red hates this kind of math its winter time in Syracuse and summer in the west Oh I lost and found my beer again it was buried in the yard right beside the old oak tree beneath the dying lawn Fire with fire sorting all the flame and sorting this smoke from high she falls like rain on an astronaut way up in the sky fall fall falling stars she's see's them falling all night long Everything is beetle dumb it's tumbled down in the mud and garden slums She bleeds she's bored its white and orange Belles of Femme and Drang ring out when she opens up the door She'll make the sad clowns laugh but the frogs still need to sleep to worry worry Every day she casts the nickels from her burdens in the dirt before her feet She turns around her luck again she leaves this town behind Her horse might sail on broken legs but her saddle doing fineThe things that we find in the old notebooks are ragged. They're all filled through to the worry with these terrible strings of impotent words intended to distill the angst and the lust of teenage stupidity. Give us a kiss instead, We're outside by the harbor wall. She doesn't like to talk about work. Not when it's come to this. The last of the boxes, all of the heavy ones are in the van now. She's heavy too, her shoulders droop and I think maybe some coffee will help?
No, I can't stay, She looks up and asks about the other things. I left some stuff on the sink and by the bed. Is that alright?
I'll manage it. Don't worry, This is only until you get back right, I brush the hair out of my eyes.
I hope so. Sleeping alone, She fake shudders.
I made you a mix-tape, She laughs at my stupid. My forever stupid head, she says it's funny and then she hugs me until I feel like a cold wad of wet paper with an erection. There were boxes and boxes of dusty spiral notepads, record books, and bound journals. Some have cut up pictures of wind surfers and hair models tacked into them with stiff yellow glue. The older books crackle and their bindings will split once they're opened.
The oldest of them is 40 maybe 50 years, most of that time in one of these boxes. There were 38 boxes in the back of the booth. This doesn't include the ones that have film canisters in them. The films are off to Brighton first thing. I guess they'll open those up and see if they're toxic inside, I said as she dug in her pocket for something. My shirt's dusty and somehow the leg of shorts got torn. Now my knee is bleeding into my shoe. They're terrible, make it stop, You laugh at Josh or Alex the boy poet. He's so painfully aware that he's in so much pain. I hope they stopped throwing words at him before died.
What are you doing?
Oh I have a pen in here somewhere and I was going to leave you a note, Her hair flips up and she laughs.
Get out of here you. Go on, I shew her away. Just git.