I 'm having a zipper installed with a hook and an eye and a clasp and a line of pearl buttons. I've got window panes. I've mad ticking devices, holes for coffee pots, tampons, pineapples, cushions, telephones and I'm still lined with red velvet.
I might sometimes cry in the middle of your shopping centre staring wildly at a man with coca-cola tattooed across his existence while those double drop doors trap snap open dragging gravity down my thoracic diaphragm but I think I'm going to say no.
I'm standing with a drink in my hand and a phone in the other. I'm writing a message to Superman about a man who should probably be shot into orbit with the dull glow of a satellite cause he'll know what I mean. I'm standing there counting pumpkins and dividing things by six just like I'd have to if I was shopping in China. I'm standing there waiting for food and poking at my upright spine then Elliot calls and he sounds drunk and he wants to see me. He wants to see me now, tonight, now and he's offering to pay for anything. I thought he was in detox, I thought he was safe with his tubes and wires and bleach echoing off cold white floors but he's in my hand and that voice is cutting through red tape.
I said yes, I said are you alright. He said no, he said thanks, he said I need to see you. I should have dropped my drink. He said I'll meet you anywhere. I said come to the house at 7 then I sat at the plastic table screwed into the shopping centre floor. I'm sipping post-good post-mix out of a cardboard cup but I'm not crying yet. I know if he comes to the house that I'll unravel until I'm in his arms and I'm breathing the god damned lime rind stink of his skin.
I've gone ultra flat and Grizelda's staring at me from across the plastic table so I pick up my phone and type out a message. I hold it up to Grizelda and she nods. I'm not going down his rabbit hole this time. These are the days of miracle and wonder with my voicebox flattened and the trap doors open. I'm sending a message using seven words. I won't see you if you're drunk.
This is the part where I'm crying in the middle of your shopping centre sipping post-good post-mix out of a cardboard cup and noticing that I've come undone. So now I 'm having a zipper installed with a hook and an eye and a clasp and a line of pearl buttons.
I'm stitching in ways to stay whole. I'm listening to people beginning to matter who are saying I'm doing the right thing. I might sometimes dance in your own kitchen, I might walk around shooting words at targets in my head. I might spend two days trailing tendrils soaking up your presence but right now I'm sitting in bed smoking my own cigarettes, wearing Superman's sunglasses and rubbing pawpaw ointment into my face and just so you know, I'm feeling fine.
I might sometimes cry in the middle of your shopping centre staring wildly at a man with coca-cola tattooed across his existence while those double drop doors trap snap open dragging gravity down my thoracic diaphragm but I think I'm going to say no.
I'm standing with a drink in my hand and a phone in the other. I'm writing a message to Superman about a man who should probably be shot into orbit with the dull glow of a satellite cause he'll know what I mean. I'm standing there counting pumpkins and dividing things by six just like I'd have to if I was shopping in China. I'm standing there waiting for food and poking at my upright spine then Elliot calls and he sounds drunk and he wants to see me. He wants to see me now, tonight, now and he's offering to pay for anything. I thought he was in detox, I thought he was safe with his tubes and wires and bleach echoing off cold white floors but he's in my hand and that voice is cutting through red tape.
I said yes, I said are you alright. He said no, he said thanks, he said I need to see you. I should have dropped my drink. He said I'll meet you anywhere. I said come to the house at 7 then I sat at the plastic table screwed into the shopping centre floor. I'm sipping post-good post-mix out of a cardboard cup but I'm not crying yet. I know if he comes to the house that I'll unravel until I'm in his arms and I'm breathing the god damned lime rind stink of his skin.
I've gone ultra flat and Grizelda's staring at me from across the plastic table so I pick up my phone and type out a message. I hold it up to Grizelda and she nods. I'm not going down his rabbit hole this time. These are the days of miracle and wonder with my voicebox flattened and the trap doors open. I'm sending a message using seven words. I won't see you if you're drunk.
This is the part where I'm crying in the middle of your shopping centre sipping post-good post-mix out of a cardboard cup and noticing that I've come undone. So now I 'm having a zipper installed with a hook and an eye and a clasp and a line of pearl buttons.
I'm stitching in ways to stay whole. I'm listening to people beginning to matter who are saying I'm doing the right thing. I might sometimes dance in your own kitchen, I might walk around shooting words at targets in my head. I might spend two days trailing tendrils soaking up your presence but right now I'm sitting in bed smoking my own cigarettes, wearing Superman's sunglasses and rubbing pawpaw ointment into my face and just so you know, I'm feeling fine.
Comments
Wait. Didn't we already do this...?
why is he called superman? is he a Super Man?
(wolfish Anthony Kiedis pose)