The avenue sleeps as the neon flames thru the marquee hung above the bars.
The chanteuse sings a tune in her acoord.
And you lay your head on the marbled counter, musing at midnight an angry poem, vanishing in the cobwebs of your thoughts, while your mood withers in the pattern of ironic changes.
Your mind occluded by themes of burning Saturday in company so intently, amidst the chant of such dim strangers,
You’re desiring that you could have the sun as your eyes- scorching whomever you want; the clouds as your beard so you can hide your tears like the rain; a radio for ears, so you don’t have to listen to the confessions and interviews of actual people, only celebrity types and all you want to hear otherwise is music.
Your freedom has been confiscated by a pretense that was symptomatic in lifestyle,
Draped in jewels of quasar-diamonds…
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