Songs Are Like Tattoos



tHIS night/ i am STrUNG up as two cats on heat/ up the

wALLs & halfway cross the ceiling/ reeling/ three in tHE

fucked up morning/ screaming (silently, in the silent







                                      and a mILLion teleVISION sets

sits cOLDly, lonely, in forgotten corners/ and i sit, cold,

alone, in the blue, untalking light/ wishing wishes &

pissing into the hurricane.


Out there/ in the dARKness/ another window bLAZES out

tungsten sorrow/ high frequency tension/ a fellow

sufferer, reviling against mORPHEUS’s caress for

free in the morning, dark madness.


But this is not the Chelsea Hotel/ Joni Mitchell is not

at her piano, playing “Blue”.






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