"Bon Voyage"
|
And promptly he hung up the phone
|
There was a doorbell ringing
|
So he snuck out onto the terrace
|
He said "If these were my last words,
|
would they even make print?
|
If all I had to say was simply over said
|
by those old heretics."
|
These words are counterfeit
|
Xeroxed off of memory
|
And no one's listening
|
Hey
|
|
Twilight dawns
|
All the champagne is gone
|
All that's left is left behind
|
Doorbells, still life
|
Hey
|
|
"Since you're leaving
|
was it a hollowed out heart?
|
It seems like you've been searching for some wordly position.
|
Somewhere you can curl up in a little ball."
|
|
It seems the world collapses
|
In the mother's womb
|
The place of birth
|
Where we're all condemned
|
It's the warm, sad, jaded end
|
Starving for salvation on a terrace
|
Drunk, tired, and alone
|
Farewell dead skin
|
|
These words are second-hand
|
They're dry
|
They're cracked-plastic lies
|
They're cheap old whores
|
That wasted their lives
|
In search of the warmest womb
|
|
-----------------
|
The Farewell Party
|
| Cursive |
