From the recording WE ARE A GHOST NOW, YOU & I


High strung,
Weak wrists,
A peroxide blonde with blood-red lips,
So cool; like a feather.
New work,
Sea breeze.
She is quieter now than she’s ever been,
Like new sheets of paper.
High tongue,
Sweet thing
Presses into me, and she tastes like gin
And a note unfamiliar.
She said
We’d win.
That her heart still lives at Little Collins St,
High above all the terror.
But the calendar has whittled away.
There are piles of dead leaves in the entrance way
There’s a key that doesn’t fit anyway.
Long gone
Twice removed
But it still feels like her job is to light the moon
Still stings like ever.
Cruel clock,
Mean ticks.
I’ve got piles of her paper that still bears
Her ink and sings her praises.
If you ever wander bye in the street
In the arms of other lovers who I couldn’t be,
If you ever turn a temperate thought to me…