u/LowerEconomist5706

You smoke while I try to sleep,
being considerate with an open window,
looking at the asphalt, telling me it’s one
fun way of beating yourself. I say we’re 
running out of ways of making this a
bearable, extraordinary time well spent, 
then I see you throw the last one onto 
someone’s balcony.
I tell you I love you as much as
a bag of hand picked rose petals weighing
fifty pounds. “Well, how much
love is that?”

It’s the shabbiest place on earth, and we’re
acting like every character in every 
movie where something really dies. The 
director’s too marvellous, now
the audience is jealous, antsy, 
in a rush to spend one night the way 
we do. You’re getting really into it, into 
character, your leg’s on a chair, you’re 
telling me the joke about the 
fatal car wreck in a bazaar.
“There go the apples– said the merchant.
There goes sanity– said the fiancé.
There goes that– said God.
The three people most affected decided to 
convene, make some sense of things.”

Now the joke’s about walking 
into a bar, now you’re 
upset over something truly 
difficult, out of view, ways and 
ways ahead, screaming, “no, no. Christ, 
no.” Laughing hysterically 
enjoying the part of denial where you 
have to stand at the edge and see 
one dreaded sunrise.

I can’t tell if you’re trading it all 
for the ugly thing spilling 
in– from the hillside 
over there, from your own 
damn self. 

We’re laying on a staircase,
Agonizing over how beautiful everything is,
even though we’re laying on a staircase.
Right in the middle, in soot, or some 
other thing, equally exhausted and
banal. You are getting away with
this happiness far better, to the point where
I wonder if you’ll kiss the feet of the next
resident walking up– in this cold,
timeless building, insisting on standing
here forever, letting in just enough light 
for the moon to always be hanging full.

Here you are in bed, shivering, 
because you’ve 
really seen the world now. Here 
you are, saying all the needed words to a
long gone son, as if all 
good is just human nature.

Here you are, on a couch.

There go apples, sanity, and that.
How the hell do you hold onto all these
truths at once?– so many pieces running
against each other in reckless terror.

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It’s the night where you’re asleep. 
Our window's open. 
I grab your arm to 
Keep the house from catching fire, 
To keep the floor from giving up,
To keep the sun from rising. 

I grab your arm and 
You sit up. You lean lazy on 
One bony elbow, you say 
“The world won’t beat it 
Out of you. I know.”

It’s summer. Days keep 
Cutting into nights. 
It’s the morning where 
We get through coffee. 
It’s morning and 
The field is golden. 
I see your head sink 
Into the tall grass. 
You spill yourself 
Into dirt right
Next to me.

My ear’s on your chest,
But the field lets in 
A steady beating. The pulse hanging
In the air; distant, 
Aimless bullets keep finding 
Skin holding together a secret. 
The grass hiding
Your hand on 
A long walk through my hair. 

It’s noon. I’m collapsed on 
The couch, reading, amidst 
Nasty stains and cigarette burns. 
There’s a nagging banging at the door. 
There’s a man outside that 
Wants to cut us open. He says 
We’re raising an army 
To invade Mongolia. 

You wish we could 
Let him in and treat him to lunch.
You say the banging has too much
Taste. He must be 
Out there with a nun. 
I throw the book, It hits 
Your face. You frown and turn  
To look at the bird on the balcony.

It’s the evening. I’m looking for
The gas tank of my car. I’m in 
A rush to get to nowhere, 
You’re more sure of yourself, less frantic. 

You’re in the store, 
Looking for a bar of soap. 
You’re in the mood for a shower. 
The cashier stares at you
Like he’s too stupid to 
Keep himself from tearing 
You apart. Really, 
He wants all the shiny things 
You keep secret. He doesn’t know 
That dies with you, unless 
Someone does something, unless 
You’ve revealed enough. 

It’s the night where you don’t sleep. 
They let us tag along at the beach. 
You lay there reading grand literature, 
Same as them, almost, 
Except you’re bleeding from somewhere.
You act like the pages are impossibly
Sharp. They can tell. You
Lack some shame.

We’re alone. I’m rowing us to
The center of the ocean.
The moon’s full, 
It’s coming down  
On the surface of the
Waves. It’s coming down 
On you. You smile with 
Yellowing teeth, 
Ragged, floating hair, eyes 
Trying to swallow the whole world 
Without missing anything sacred. 

We’re alone, I kiss you, I kiss your 
Neck, I want to take this as far 
As it goes. I look down and
See white knuckles 
That don’t care enough about
The railing. You lean
Over to look into 
The surface of the waves. 

The moon’s there, it shows people 
Dancing in a white fire. 
They kill and collapse 
Into one. They love and collapse 
Into one. They collapse 
Into millions. They all run 
Away to collapse back together. 

You lean over and I pull your hand. 
You lean and 
I’m on the wrong side. 
Your hand on a long walk. You tell me 
“There’s nuns scattered everywhere and everyone’s on fire.”

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Watching you pack is a real bore. 
Right up until I forget myself, 
I notice your hair suits you better 
All messed up. Your dress 
Is from before you, it will be after you. 
It’s a movie, baby, but 
We’re the only people left; 
Only I can watch it. 

You keep throwing in 
Jewellery and money. All our money 
Keeps spilling over. We’ll leave it there 
On the floor, though we haven’t eaten all week. 

You lay down.
We smoke half a cigarette.
If they come in right now 
And shoot us dead, 
We’ll be too good for anything to really break.

You give me desperate orders,
“March me off. March me off 
Now. March me off the cliff,” 
All while eating brunch. You explain,
“The other stuff’s more important 
Than tragedy and tragedy’s too important 
For them to comprehend.”

There’s no car in this story. 
We’re in a bus and we’re headed
Down the wrong lane.
Trucks coming our way,
We’re speeding past traffic,
Trucks right ahead–

I’m screaming at you, 
“Have you any idea
What’s chasing after us?
What could be chasing us?”

The bus driver’s bored,
He’s in a rush, he’s in the zone,
A trashy song blasting on the radio,
We’re the fastest we’ve ever been,
We’re flying now, now, 
Now the fat lady up front starts praying.

You say, “Honey, 
If you don’t think 
Being on the run is one romantic endeavor, 
I just don’t know what to tell you.”

But the dust is
Spilling from the sky outside. 
Someone’s childhood bedroom 
Getting to know the pavement. 
You’re smiling and I shoot you 
Our look, (remember? 
Like at Jim’s party, where 
His pitiful wife kept giving us material 
For our dinner conversations) 
But you shake your head to say “later.” 

So I waste all day, 
I kiss you, I’m frantic,
I lay with you, I drink with you, 
We talk to some man 
Insisting on beating us with a wrench,
We drink with him too. 
“What a good dancer,” you keep saying, 
“Ain’t he one hell of a dancer, darling?”

Only in our bed, you pull out the script. 
We start reading it over.
We’re laughing, thoroughly going through it. 
I get to the point where

The drunk construction worker lays the wrong brick. 
The gunman, politely asked to 
Begin the invasion, leans on it, 
Trying for a better shot 
At your head, the wall comes 
Crashing down, 
Someone’s childhood bedroom 
Crashing down with it.
Someone’s father goes back home. 
He wants to remember.
Someone’s daughter can’t watch;
Her dad is pathetic and human
In front of a pile of rubble. 

You tell me some teenager got a real kick out of that scene. 
He knew the room would fall 
The second he saw that brick. 
Walked out of the theater very proud. 
Told his friends, “watching good movies is a bore.” 
He knew too much. The camera angles,
Masterfully crafted, 
Kept betraying the ending. 

But, Christ, I was so sad 
When I saw the care
They put in the shot 
Where you closed your eyes
In some motel.

There you go jumping in the sea,
There you go laying in grass,
There you go flying,
There goes your hair in the wind,
There goes your body,
There goes you, getting specific,
(Cards fell off the balcony,
Where’s your jacket
On a summer night,
Smoking from a friend’s pack–)
There, there, there 
You are.
 
In the middle of the day, 
In white dirty sheets.
The motel telephone 
Kept on ringing.

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“What's the strangest thing I can do? 
What can I do right now?” 
I keep thinking and laying in 
Our unmade bed, all dressed and ready.
 
Watching you pack is a real bore. 
Right up until I forget myself, 
I notice your hair suits you better 
All messed up. Your dress 
Is from before you, it will be after you. 
It’s a movie, baby, but 
We’re the only people left; 
Only I can watch it. 

You keep throwing in 
Jewellery and money. All our money 
Keeps spilling over. We’ll leave it there 
On the floor, though we haven’t eaten all week. 

You lay down.
We smoke half a cigarette each.
If they come in right now 
And shoot us dead, 
We’ll be too good for anything to really break.

You give me desperate orders,
“March me off. March me off 
Now. March me off the cliff,” 
All while eating brunch. You explain,
“The other stuff’s more important 
Than tragedy and tragedy’s too important 
For them to comprehend.”

There’s no car in this story. 
We’re in a bus and we’re headed
Down the wrong lane.
Trucks coming our way,
We’re speeding past traffic,
Trucks right ahead–

I’m screaming at you, 
“Have you any idea
What’s chasing after us?
What could be chasing us?”

The bus driver’s bored,
He’s in a rush, he’s in the zone,
A trashy song blasting on the radio,
We’re the fastest we’ve ever been,
We’re flying now, now, 
Now the fat lady up front starts praying.

You say, “Honey, 
If you don’t think 
Being on the run is one romantic endeavor, 
I just don’t know what to tell you.”

But the dust is
Spilling from the sky outside. 
Someone’s childhood bedroom 
Getting to know the pavement. 
You’re smiling and I shoot you 
Our look, (remember? 
Like at Jim’s party, where 
His pitiful wife kept giving us material 
For our dinner conversations) 
But you shake your head to say “later.” 

So I waste all day, 
I kiss you, I’m frantic,
I lay with you, I drink with you, 
We talk to some man 
Insisting on beating us with a wrench,
We drink with him too. 
“What a good dancer,” you keep saying, 
“Ain’t he one hell of a dancer, darling?”

Only in our bed, you pull out the script. 
We start reading it over.
We’re laughing, thoroughly going through it. 
I get to the point where

The drunk construction worker lays the wrong brick. 
The gunman, politely asked to 
Begin the invasion, leans on it, 
Trying for a better shot 
At your head, the wall comes 
Crashing down, 
Someone’s childhood bedroom 
Crashing down with it.
Someone’s father goes back home. 
He wants to remember.
Someone’s daughter can’t watch;
Her dad is pathetic and human
In front of a pile of rubble. 

You tell me some teenager got a real kick out of that scene. 
He knew the room would fall 
The second he saw that brick. 
Walked out of the theater very proud. 
Told his friends, “watching good movies is a bore.” 
He knew too much. The camera angles,
Masterfully crafted, 
Kept betraying the ending. 

But, Christ, I was so sad 
When I saw the care
They put in the shot 
Where you closed your eyes
In some motel.

There you go jumping in the sea,
There you go laying in grass,
There you go flying,
There goes your hair in the wind,
There goes your body,
There goes you, getting specific,
(Cards fell off the balcony,
Where’s your jacket
On a summer night,
Smoking from a friend’s pack–)
There, there, there 
You are.
 
In the middle of the day, 
In white dirty sheets.
The motel telephone 
Kept on ringing. 

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