its all about the kind of night when you listen to Leonard Cohen and think
about the girls you used to pretend to know
and its not true that they were illusions because the words were plain as day
and besides they made you feel human for a bit
so do not laugh there is no time and the air is heavy anyway
there is only yesterday an excuse for mourning today
so you sit and slightly dance because it feels like the
right thing to say
and you're talking to a girl who may be a man but you've known her too long to
start caring
besides the night is young though not as young as you
and besides the day is over and you have nothing else to do
the music turns lush as the place turns and all your words become mere figments
and fragments
and all the girls you used to know may have been you talking in your sleep but
you put stock in dreams so it probably does not matter
and though there are grosser things to do then this it does not diminish the
absence of her kiss
though her lips were made of tin and newsprint they tasted sweeter then her
words could ever
and things dribble in little drabs of colour like the blinking of a mouse which
is as close as you'll ever get to her hand
and you'd preposition her if you knew what the word meant and if it meant 'make
love through little boxes' because you hate inaccuracy and that would be the
only right definition
and as the lines get longer and your head starts pounding you know you don't
know how to end it
so as night falls gently you rock backwards and wonder why it was begun at all