SONGS ARE LIKE TATTOOS
tHIS night/ i am strung up as two CATs on heat/ up the
wALLs & halfway cross the ceiling/ REELING/ three in tHE
fucked up MORNING/ screaming (silently, in the silent
and a mILLion teleVISION sets
sits cOLDly, lonely, in forgotten corners/ and i sit, cold,
alone, in the blue, untalking light/ wishing wishes &
pissing into the hurricane.
Out there/ in the dARKness/ another window BLAZES out
tungsten sorrow/ high frequency tension/ a fellow
sufferer, reviling against mORPHEUS’s caress for
free in the morning, dark madness.
But this is not the Chelsea Hotel/ Joni Mitchell is not
at her piano, playing “Blue”.