Leftover Liqour and loose fixtures that won’t light the neons when the last train leaves for Miami
It’s nervous when things come in pieces, when your name is printed on a simple sticker across a white plastic pinned just a finger above your left breast. It’s nerving when I’ve had too much to drink and consciousness is a word against thirty seven pairs of eyes. Particularly, you were walking around, you were walking around. Stealing glances between simple sips and hollow conversations, so careful not to fart but hanging on; hanging on, hanging on.
The breath that keeps forgetting the smell that keeps my sentences together. Three or less, just a figure, then they changed lanes and kept pouring the ridicule into a heavy glass. I’m alright, just a little uptight, a little uptight but I’m alright.
It’s nervous when things come in pieces, and my words swirl into a river, into a motion picture, into a callous remark that could wait beside all my cheap thrills. It’s nerving when you know that beauty is a fairy that shuffles between your pupils, and I’m shape-shifting into a litre of air. Particularly the technique is tactic in tactile arithmetic that laughs at the possibilities, so I close my eyes and let it go. Cheebye lah.
