The parties I want to attend
Throw champagne in your face in disgust
Then scratch your car; and
They play something smooth like honey
On the speakers. You talk to a narcissist
Until you’re ready to beat them with the bottle.
No matter your turn of phrase you somehow manage
to demean and offend the artistic upstart
who you’ve been listening to for the last hour.
You fall into the pool
And the ripples make the moon light dance
All around You. Then you stand in a dripping
Blue suit, smile, and walk out.
False cowboys take up motel rooms.
You’re in that weary state where you mumble phrases
Like: “I don’t know man” and “just give me the key”
And you want to wave goodbye
To the ugly landscape. The person at reception
Tells you the pool is closed. There’s no barrier around the pool
But you don’t want to take a chance. There’s one room left.
A cowboy stands idle under the sad yellow light
Blackened by flies and acting forlorn.
You know for a fact his mind’s on the steak he had
When he was seven and his father came home early.
Motel rooms scream secrets
But you’re too tired for degeneracy – anyway,
The mayor of a nearby town is entertaining in room 207
Dressed as a gigolo Santa in July. Never the less,
The orange heat of the dawn sun
Coming through the blinds in the desert morn
Is as welcoming as any waterfall.
Renaissance painters knew their angels
They had them looking bored like everyone else
Even in Florence, full of royal wine.
Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Raphael:
A trinity of future designers,
Their minds like running rivers.
They captured a beauty and a melancholy
That has transcended time.
Propulsion, speed, Opera
Bowling down the road in sleepless coattails
And the same gloves you slept in –
What a gorilla, devoid of inspiration
Wallowing in howling sin, desperate as a star
Ready to supernova. Arrested for jaywalking
And screaming at the police for offences
Mismanaged. Work in the morning,
Sad wailing musical pipe dream romance –
Stale coffee. Dreams written as tattoos.
Every eye is on you like Apollo: a crumbling obelisk
Cursing to the dirt, asking the earth
“Why aren’t I rich yet?” – Some kind of prayer.
It’s an aspiration,
Nay! A dream!
To destroy a hotel room
While my body is as weak as a guitar string
Left on a guitar by an 80 year old
Farmer who’s seen everything before.
But, unlike him, I’ll be dancing
Gyrating like sin, singing and drinking
(Attempting to do both at the same time)
Ready to interview a Mancunian upstart
With a fringe
And a paisley shirt
But the guy will have to call me and not give up
Because I guarantee I’ll be passed out
You light my heart like an opportunity
That I let pass by me in the street;
An excitement, like rushing rivers through my veins
Or a hand promising everything for nothing.
And I see you in the moon when it’s late
And the last bus is leaving.
To me you are everything I wanted.
You stand there on another plain
And I wonder: if I held you would it be enough
To burn away the storm that is currently
Falling on me?
Lingering late night warm and lonesome
Catching smoke between the trees.
Taxi’s wait in the dark. Some people stand
Looking down the road with worry;
Others just pass them by.
I think that I love Vegas
Though I have never been
It’s got the best hotels
That I have never seen.
Listening to the Replacements
Catching the bus
On blue winter evenings.
I wander if there’s a fire burning
Beyond the horizon,
And if it’s worth breaking away
With no plan
Lost in the vain determination
I want to be the guy
In a scraggly white shirt
And a black wide brimmed hat
Sitting in the shaded doorway
(Green paint peeling, number 23)
In a small Spanish town, a drink in my hand
And a nylon string guitar
That I play
To earn some spare change
From the tourists.