D.W.

You don’t snore,
And the halls are silent at this time.
Neon eyeballs stare back out of the televisions.
The man still sleeps in there…
And we sleep.
And we wake,
To some man yelling orders of plastic faces,
Walking around stuck to pedestals,
Wearing gold lame or nothing at all,
Whichever you prefer.
You spit and see the sparkling ceiling
And hear the men walking in the hall,
And tears fall from your eyes.
You think too much.
Nothing grows there.
Where I eat
The man slaps his customers
In a gentle sort of way.
What is it?
What is it
That makes people not want to look?
What is it?
What is it
That makes people want to?
Together we see nothing.
You want to go home.
The swelling is down,
And you kiss me goodbye.
Thank you.
Now I travel back to my white room,
Where a man wrapped in a blanket
Cries his jealousy.
And I leave the scene
And think of you in the hall with the men.
I open my door and see you smiling.
And your mouth is green dye.
And your fists are again bloody.
And your mind is again senseless.
Enter my red room.
You lay on my carpet,
Swollen again.
The TV man says it’s cold outside.
It’s good to keep the acquaintance,
You said.
One night I was bored, and the phone rang,
And we spent ourselves by the river
On the dead leaves, sipping lemonade
And biting flesh.
Moons never told our secrets.
And crooks in trees held those unfortunates.
Night pushes in our heads,
And mine hurts from car doors,
And numerous brushes on my self
Are examined by your fists.