12 Apr 2011
O’ to be in the womb!
O’ the body unmade!
Tomorrow, a virgin.

Why do brilliant minds and soft hearts become real estate agents--
Exquisite teeth lost in a bath of incandescent lighting?
Why do lovers become liars and then disappear?
Oh, they're all blissed out on mercury and sea salt.

O’ to be in the womb!
O’ the body unmade!
Tomorrow, a virgin.

Ten thousand hours in the back of a radio station;
sprawled out, scrawling on the bathroom stall;
instructional graphics, statements on hydrodynamic thrust,
lemon-scented air fresheners shaped like yellow Christmas trees,
hanging sad from a Chevy rear-view.

I've got a question.

Can you hear it? Can you hear it?
It's calling out like a diver caught in the honeycomb,
waterlogged and choking--it's the fucking future, man.