Meet the drumbeat kiss with gaping lips/between the thriving lashing howling crying crowd/around the snare drum dancing-girls` hips/avoid the thorns lacking in a rose head. Northern England New Orleans/rock classic rock filters from doorways in its sexless fashion/and long-haired men shake their heads and wonder what it means/to be alive, in the middle, with you.
We cruise down the avenue of broken glass/with our feet in cold cloth binds and steel shackles/down a street of monarchy working class/stumbling on high sidewalks in higher heels. The kings, too, posture in reflections/of overpriced rooms with cheap poison deals/battlegrounds against introspection/with tacky texture tiles and stained carpets.
The quiet bar on the corner of nine fifteen/comfort couches in the walls and period art/reproductions of maligned painters’ dreams/and Guinness is sold in Aussie tin cans. Tinny DJ copy writes tinny songs/scrawled lyrics in his forearm/a broken man boasts with his teeth and his tongue/of his addictions and indiscretions.
And we move through cold cobblestone streets/between the bars and the beer gardens/where the smokers laugh and smoke and smoke and drink and meet/and die. Down the stairs to a bad cover band/and falling asleep in a rotten cocaine booth/flutter at the songs with your hands/and dream of shouting obscenities.
When you punch a man, aim for the space behind his head/to crush his bones and break his nose/or better yet garrote him for all the things we should have said/and pretend that Sunday mornings don’t exist. That headaches are illusionary nerve damaged dreams/agony is a relative term/as dystopia glitters from behind the seams/of a drunken knight’s nightly escapade.