I want to be a ribbon microphone, and want the smell of my pallmalls
to have a heart-aching, dead in the tracks, affect.
And as so, I want to be in Vegas, in nineteen hundred and fifty four.
To be worn by a charcoal'd grey suit, while we dance slow to Chet Baker.
With your breast affirmed to my chest, only.
I want your breath stained with Johnny Walker Blue with that sarcastic tongue of yours firmly entrenched in my cheek.
I want us to wake up, and get breakfast at that shitty little bakelite down by 7th avenue. You'll have grits.
Me, with both eggs sunny side up, not a lot of hash.
Not a lot of yolk.
But it's sixty five degrees there, it might as well have 90 percent humidity, and a grand ol' chance of me
kicking my own ass.
It's all the same, is it not?
