Last night i dreamt that i was you. i was dressed
all in black with dark glasses and attitude.
Such a pose i could simply not hold through days
in a northern town that i had once called a
home.
Your studies for fringe new york streets... i was
reading the pavement in every work you would
speak.
To a "brownstone up three flights of stairs" and
it's on...
Buying drinks for the poets upstate, this
southern corrupting towed you down the
interstate,
And they all said that you were the king of
gloomy disruption that surfaced when you would
speak.
This town simply cannot compete so i'm packing my
Bullets and Silverstones
And heading east to a "brownstone up three
flights of stairs" and it's on...
If i could have (had) my way this year would
bridge '66 (again?)
Trust fund hipsters were casing the room chock
full of amphetamines.
The overturned kick drum book set the pace with
incomparable cool.
And if the tempo was lousy it was lost on all but
you...