If you enjoy the silence after midnight
If you like Tarantino and read Burroughs
your strings are made of fire
your dreams are weapons of mass destruction
mixing streams of consciousness with time travel
in a smoky pub
levitating
between desire and sorrow
as plain as Chekhov
as rubbish as a marijuana limbo
Take it like a man
write it on your sleeve each day
thousands of times
as writers do
as prostitutes fake love
as junkies fill their veins with coke
in a speeding orgasm of yesterday and tomorrow
Take it like a man
wish the best for space travel
hope to dance on the Moon tonight