The crimson crescent descends upon an obscure
The pages are turned and situations are engaged,
locked into a web, an alive, glowing web of being.
The phone rings the caller is waiting. A hand
clasps the receiver and the terminal connects.
"Hi it's me!"
The moon hangs like a pale yellow cyst in a
The street is deserted now and a chill northern
wind tosses the newspapers around like pathetic ghosts.
They thrash limply along the narrow
A figure crouched in the doorway its face tinged
with an orange glow from a cigarette.
Glowing deeply glowing.
Maybe the possibility exists that you can believe
your own heart?
But see the man who waits with a book in his hand
while crouching on his knees.
Muttering those solemn words as humanity flees its
All tattered and torn, broken and forlorn.
Your saving grace is wearing thin
While the horsemen ride by
Severing your phony tribal ties
With their sanctity.
Shirts along the highway robbery
English is full of trickery
And your head is a mockery
Moan groan you're really all alone
Hanging on to your immobile telephone.
Erections in cars
Girls and garages
Strung out in the LA night
Some are born to sleep the night
Some are born to sweet delight
Some are born to the endless night.
Some are trapped in eternal fright.