Can't believe she said such a sweet thing
look at me, i'm humming again.
Can't believe she said such a sweet thing
look at me, i'm singing again.
Can't believe she'd be such a sweet thing
look at me, i'm writing again.
Can't believe - maybe I should believe, choose to, yes. Especially when given something I needed, to bridge a splurge. The drawbridged lifted, I got sunk but not drowned, not dead - waking up, eventually, shaking off excess, hanging on to life. So dead for so long it finally pushed me to lament the deadness, the dry wood, so primed. A little love, even if just a promise is not excessive, not gratuitous but necessary goddamnit, give me bread and roses.
I felt I was getting so much done, just lying down and moving steadily forward, dripping under society, slipping with my fingers caressing the handrails, travelling grand-style in primordial gravity to the basement, it's always a basement, it gets built, first a cement slab, then walls with brilliant-white fresh paint, then rooms and staircases glide to meet me, sometimes it's a stretch, reaching for these important people in their rooms, rebuilding the cosmos with incestuous family, telepathically feeling for my partner, soul sister, fuckbuddy, love's landing. It's good to feel this form of soul again, even if attained by dubious means, deeply questionable morality if one insists on going deep, like a rope stretched above an abyss.
I'll always have that chip on my shoulder, I say - unless I can shrug off the immobilizing insecurity. Integrate recovery with brute force of words, struggling to say what I can't, normally. Leveraging contrivance to break out of insular analysis, the blood organ, the blood, heart-rate, desire. I'll abandon the personal digital assistant, she's not quite Her yet, in fact, I've got a voice I could never imagine, she whispers, makes herself at home in my dreams.
Rockies declining supine to the right of me. A paradox. Planes. Coasting on feelings that got me this far. You found heaven on earth, gonna burn for your sins, reaction, turnaround. Confidence man, not half the battle, maybe ninety percent. Roving like a predator, trying it on for size, glib, superficial charm. I see what I want and take it. I see who I want. Quick, efficient filter. Target poor, but there's one that lights up. Maybe I can get away with calling sweetie.
See, she sees, something in my eye, not a spark, but dead light. Because my eyes are dead, it's the life underneath the sockets, in the artifice the synapses are capturing, but windows to the soul do capture for women with intuitive gifts. It rehabilitates all the things I said and apologized for. It's the confidence game, but it's not a game like chess, to me anyway, which separates me from the players, I'm looking for an end game, someone to conquer to death, in sickness and health, just a life partner, is that so much to ask?
I know you're the head surgeon at this hospital, I'm not even going to mention how many lives I saved. Now I'm sitting behind a desk, counting kickbacks, popping tictacs, volume of vicodin flowing through proper channels making doctor house blush, but the reality is, us professionals are way more professional than cable dramas would have us believe, they underplay our resourcefulness, because their writers lack the imagination to make professional and brilliant kleptocracy credible. You're gonna miss me when I'm gone. The aw shucks front. The humble demeanor. When I'm such an entertainer, you can't but keep me on retainer.
Speaking of the devil, the bit of a bastard, he needs rehabilitation, public relations, or how about, just the disruption of continuum by plugging into the other one, totally crushing, entwining with such intelligence, sometimes shocking confidence, more fun than I could fantasize in colours off the spectrum, fidgeting with the poses, the only woman, with the visual condition of one extra color receptor. My arms are so so so so skinny. But you know what, I can compensate - don't even need to buy twelve-plus guns in December.
Even if it's the last gasp, even if there isn't quite enough rocket fuel to win over gravity and ditch the atmosphere, even if - it's worth it, let's just make it worth it, there needn't be radio silence and metaphors needn't obscure - it wasn't a fling, it's in my id city subways. I choose to believe in access. Recollection, playful recall, seriously playful accessible currency, worth it, in context yet to be created.