Clair de Lune

 well, well,

look at all that moooney. 

i grew up long and hard, and now it is so cold. 

i should throw up

i had dinner with a catscan, removing your cancer

like flame for two days!

Where is everyone tonight?  I hear them all upstairs but only the fat opera lady sang to me of my impending doom from the chandelier

it's gonna strike in two days, or is the flame, 

that which burns his irises and his wholes in his pockets,

where his glass opus strikes a cataclysm of concrete,

and whooooa look at all that money,

it's gone now

 

Well, time to go upstairs, join the crowd, the festivities, the malevolence, and don't forget the batman!

 

When I'm well, you can tell, she's been with me now

i need a line of hope to string anything i vow

 

don't give me the socks!

yeah i just paid like fourteen hundred dollars, 

excuse me, your attention please, your life is critically low,

in recognizing your memory, said the petite british gal from somewhere behind me, you may glimpse debussy's life in a redundant conundrum as he writes of moonlight, caught in unending, mindless repetition 

 

well we'll see ya tomorrow morning, tomorrow evening

said in the exact same point in time, yet heard in to separate glimpses 

 

my face is not angelic, it is covered in white plaster, as his her's, with a shade of beige and a pinch of angel dust, 

we are that we are

 

i'm not unfortunate. i'm not. i am not at 53 years old.  

(these are the words of the people upstairs)

 

the man in front of me is a scoundrel,

look at him with that fair maiden, 

there is indeed a devilish smirk behind is amicable dimples, 

a sign of inherent imperfection in the creases and scars on his face,

not both eyes are seen, but the one on our side, fighting for us, is just suspicious enough

unnoticeable to any eye but one pair, which belongs to me

 

fifteen hundred dollars. FIFTEEN!

are you gellin'? 

frank mullen, salvation station.

sounds like a place i should go.

all aboard! next stop catacano 

 

where on thearth are we going?  lets talk in newspeak

 

it is a dark place, as water runs and filters our filth on a daily basis, and the

place glows with warmth and disaster said with the mouth of a mercedes,

in this dark place lurks an omnipotent human soul whose body is drawn carefully with crescendoes and tenutoes, and also, quite cute toes.

where was this again?  the place where the man who burns his irises and his holes in his pockets resides.

this place contains two paradoxical qualities.

beauty and horror, and a window

 you can get there if you so wish

 

Freely Flensing Hotel, one day, released from responsibilities, and even ambitions, I'll take a trip there.  It'll be one way

 

Red is black