Sad songs. Yeah, you take the sad songs and slide them in your lover and make them better. Right? You kiss them and touch their bits and squeeze them all over and things blossom and your lover comes into bloom like never before. Right? Those bright lights, how they float around your head like butterflies, and whenever you snatch at them, they dart this way and that and you get so angry but you could be dead so shush, and get on with it. Sometimes, when I’m feeling in the mood, I see her with her tongue sticking out. There’s texture and saliva and eyes and more eyes and noses and fingers and her lips on my piece and I wish I were a liberal but fuck it, what she does makes me hate everyone else and I’m not ashamed, no, not one little bit. In the undergrowth, in a place far from those who would have us admit defeat, we crawl around on our bellies and sing as if we were the first souls to taste life. Hand in hand down streets with no name, we dance as if there are no more tomorrows and such a thought makes us smile like children, the children we are inside these useless bodies that only ever bring us down. In a circle of traffic cones in a parking lot belonging to the local supermarket, we howl and spit and cuss and fall to the ground laughing until we can barely breathe. There are kisses where kisses should be, and fingernails dragged across flesh. There are words that break chains, and strange visions that get inside our hearts and minds reducing us to ashes, and those ashes, how they float around town and drift out to sea until long before daylight comes, we find ourselves a million miles away.