On the street tonight
a girl, thigh-skimming, skintight negligee barged into me. Blurs of
pastel blue, fuzzy pink
life is dirty, a pot for
watercolours sliding, waiting for the
oils to separate on the palette
lights to change. In my brain
l’appel du vide and
deliberately not checking the road for traffic
if your metal stops
it waits for me. Low level headache.
low level lifeache and the muscles in my legs are stricken into fever
stepping into the elevator
I’ve a bagful of tablets
and a mindful of taking them
as Roy Orbison screams You Got It.