Saturday, July 26, 2008

a small restaurant unlike memphis (a bad andy warhol film)

inhale pink oxygen
where drinks like fire run down curtains ---- throat ---- lungs

where dismal hope exists ever-always reaching
beyond shaking means ---- torpid steps ---- tepid conversation

the couch is covered in faux fur ---- the floors creek ---- groaning-
ages spent lying in the best of moods glass in hand
the peopled rooms speak of hideous efforts (masks in place greeting fake face)

affront to quiet nature
affront to Warhol
affront to the very circle of familiarity

we languish in removed connect

quiet months pass where nothing curtains our view
yet still ---- we are unable to move

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