foundsong poem

Flying across the state line
I've nothing much to offer
you're tossing turning, dreams are murders
and I say
Wake up you sleepy head
while you whimpering
(stop me, oh stop me) relate:

He was smiling through his own personal hell
the railings of the bridge were moving by the glass
and the phantom appeared
to brush the dust of youth from off your shoulder
opening
his mouth to say
"I come from Boston, I'm gonna tell you all about
how I love New England, it's my favorite place.
It's automatic, I need to unload
'cause
I was born in a class-five hurricane
and I'm sick, you're tired,
let's dance."

So you tell me more how
all around the demons say
"That's what we try to do in our music."
They're terrible and
while avoiding them you notice
a thickset man
with frog eyes
standing at the door,
who makes you remember "ooh,
my cousin's friend's friend wanna meet me..."

I interrupt because I won't share you
after the glow,
the scene, the stage, the set, but
you forgot I was here; stuttering
"oh, hello."

I know when to go out
thrown like a star in my vast sleep
so I'll stop asking you
What do I need to do
to see myself in a better mood.

We're all working for the weekends.