like butterfly kisses being laid on the starch stricken faces of pillowcases by terrorists. In other words intentions were good but I think you should face up, face the music, no wind up toy won't turn to the knife in it's back and accuse it, turn and face her, itself fear, for if there is betrayal here I don't see it, just the equitable taking to task of two people searching for mirrors. Listen closely and you too could hear it, listen close enough, you never know what you could hear.

Well now you say you didn't mean what you were saying.
I hadn't thought you'd said much anything of note.
I'm neither your man, nor your mannequin.
It's a Freudian slip, right down your throat.

Young beautiful one what you wanted.
Sweet, pretty thing, smooth to the touch.
Smile, stay for a while, don't you want it?
Know there's a line but it won't mean much.

(Notice me, notice me:
a young pretty thing and so supple.)

Lips like lilacs,
you plucked the petals off of a
Lie! Don't even try.
Don't your morals tell you otherwise?

(How could it be, how could it be?
How can one make three into the couple?)

Mirror, mirror.

Can't reflect my innards.
If you could see my guts would I have thought
that they'd be bigger, bigger, bigger.

(And, for every night, I don't sing,
I sleep my solo: horoscopes, and
a hand in mine)

Hand in hand.
Oh! The circumstance!

Clean the dark right out of my mind.
We two are twins, we're Gemini,
which is to say we're twin infants.

(I know the feeling is more than fleeting,)

When they say you're underage, I say
you're underpriveleged.

(but I,)

So take me back to your
impoverished village,

(but I)

at the city limits I'll wait.

(but I)

can't. I can't.


Sometimes doing this means heading home an hour before the party ends. To get what you need and make an uncareful retreat, to have a turtlish love for your own personal cave deep. It means getting acquainted with your own apartment, and so, your own head. Yes, I know you know a few futons that would leap, as puma, into leopard print beds, inviting your hips to be organ-grinder to the accordion of their springs, but better to know your own music: whiskers rubbing out their rhythms on your chin, flies dropping with a plunk into the fluorescent light's casing, your unopened love notes a silent letter's stress-able rest. so your house is full of instruments. Yes, they pile up on the kitchen table with the government assistance cheques.