paul mccartney, you might have had many
faces in mind, but the song would not have been
so lovely if you had seen them all naked and groping,
desperate bodies, flashing wounds and juices,
wondering, 'do I even taste like me anymore?'
no matter, no matter, no matter--
I can't even write a song, it's so fucking tragic.
what are we looking for?
Freddie Mercury asked the same question--
Oops! I'm sorry.
I let out this terrible laugh when I cannot come
because I am thinking of you--
talking to me about intuition.
About not wanting me anymore.
About not meant to be.
I know
you probably want nothing to do with this ache--
must be so ugly, and you wish it was never so sweet.
Jesus Christ,
I wish the same of you, but I keep sprouting tears--
pulling at my hair to wash your goddamn feet.
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