last call

3 am's the hour when our pretensions to greatness, to glory, to feeling alive stagger home, some alone, some with lies.

living in neutral: killing time
murderous rage at my contentednes, but i'm only killing time
passed out on the bedroom floor, but i'm only killing time
the promises i've made to myself are the ones i won't keep
as patient as a day old fly
killing time.

down cobblestone paths we wandered
the sun's glow warming us
and as into night she sank
your hand warmed mine
i heard approaching thunder
and could feel the cold rain
and though i wanted shelter
we walked and we walked and we walked

when we peeled off our drenched clothes
and left them to lie on the floor
your lips felt so warm.

we pass the nights away living them as a carelessly orchestrated loss of those faculties that make us so afraid of ourselves and the damage we'll do.
we're reckless. we cheat and we lie and we charm and it doesn't matter anyway: i don't care, i don't care, i don't care anymore.

Drunk and lagging but not ready to go home. Choose one of the manye cramped stalls, she fumbles for a lighter, pulling a notebook from a purse along with a vial, no doubt one of many, containing more pills than you would have thought for such a small space, and she starts crushing them and I'm out of cash so I roll up the receipt reading my currount account balance, a healthy 18$ in the red, and we snort the pills and walk back out to join the others. We're still dancing, and I'm still sort of drunk but my buzz is fading and the pills don't seem to do a thing for me.....

Nothing but idle kids with idle minds in altered states of apathy.

Every saturday afternoon is hope, every evening anticipation...
but every night is the same bitter disappointment you've tasted before.

dinner and drinks.

Smoke rises in a trail and disperses, i look down and trace it back to your lips, red against your pale skin and the dark sky, your body gently lit by the glow from a kerosene lantern that slowly hisses, the only sound i pay attention to despite the smooth jazz soundtrack and the din of conversations about art galleries and their wine and cheese receptions, where you mingle with bureaucrats and bankers who'll pay thousands for that limited edition print of a perfect moment from our lives that you've captured on film, squeezing the soul from us with each flash.
And Paul leans in and whispers something in your ear, and you laugh politely because it's the thing to do but when you look at me i can tell you're miserable and i try hard to look like i care but it's forced because i don't and i wish you knew.