Currently Listening Here Come the Warm Jets By Brian Eno see related

I’m taking my apathy out for a drink and other general sins.   All done up like some blinking lights on the fritz with no real visible rhythm, my pulse painted on my sleeve.  Elevator to your door and back down again, pressing all the numbers before we get off.  You wear black like it’s a business.  And with contempt for the seasons we are tethered to sidewalks and metro lines that live in yawning stations where whispers hold heavy as if suspended in water.  They look at you on the train because that’s what people always seem to do.  Somewhere between the 6^th stop and the opened flask we get entangled in our own reflections.  Isn’t this a song?  I’m sure this is a song I heard one night years ago, placid in our oblivion.  The doors open and you write “What a talent was here” in lipstick on the tunnel maps then its all night skies and a street lamps engage.

            Come on baby and give me some words I’ll want to put my mouth on.  I don’t want to wait anymore but I’ll go on if you need me too because the ice isn’t ice if we say otherwise. Flash your heels baby so they’ll know we mean business.  Tell me I’m wasted on you then see what crawls up the back of your skirt.  We can birth these crimes through the P.A., find an appropriate corner to crawl into and unravel our intestines with some ninety-proof bliss that bleeds like a virgin on the altar.  Call me a fag, slap me in front of everyone and I’ll tell you exactly how the poets lie and you will look like the most proper of fools and I the sage. But before the words even get out the overture finds its focus, we hold our breath, the kids in the club they stare up, mouths open and I for all the empty air in my black lungs I cannot stop needing this.  But for our moment I think it best we keep our hands on each other and make with the innuendo, the promise, because if we’ve really learned anything its that no one forgets how to fuck.  Ever.

Currently Listening The Beatles (The White Album) By The Beatles see related

Turbine heat and skin come screaming down the hallway fucking me six ways from melody.  My ode to joy, my gospel Christmas.  If it weren’t for you and her and her and him I would be dead.  And if I really try I swear to god I could push the clouds to my liking on a blue canvas.  That little boy who backed in the corner and heaved his guts on his shirt, who sulked for his heart never bothered to stop looking in the mirror so I held him under the bath water until he stopped kicking.  I was born today on a linoleum floor on my knees baptized by time and forty watt daybreak.  Swing low sweet patriot of mourning and kiss me on the mouth for I am your child and we are magnificent.

Currently Listening Kind of Blue By Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderley, Bill Evans see related

I stretch my arms high and straight, slide on my knees down the hallway and stop at your feet.  Our drunk is on fire and the elevator doors close behind you.  I’m saying everything I can with the flick of my wrist and a twist at the end of my lips.  You stare at your feet and start humming ethereal, like whale song or satellite hum.  And you wonder why boys follow you at arms length down sidewalks on your way home.  All I want to hear is where to put my hands and how long to hold myself accountable.  It’s called making a sucker of my person but fuck you for acting like you haven’t.  So it’s a ride back to the hotel lobby in a glass capsule, all two finger heat and teeth-marked earlobes.  Don’t pretend this isn’t happening.  Don’t act as it were tomorrow.  Let’s just do that thing with our bruises and call it…