Unique moods, special energy.
Saying no to much of life.
Maybe no energy at all, but slow motion.
Wanting to be entertained, not dead.
Wanting to sit and soak
in room-temperature coffee.
Wanting to dance like a loose rag doll
with the prettiest waitress
at that sloppy diner with fungus.
Listening to The Fall.
Like Bob Dylan, only far more.
Is it far worse?
Keep drilling the monotone at me.
the kind that can be left behind.
Leaving me almost not wanting,
like a stringy dish cloth
pulled through teeth of a garbage disposal.
Take-and-bake pizza, oven buzzer blows.
Can I take it out, can I cut it up?
The Fall gives me that poisoned feel.
It is good poisoned,
like when no one needs you,
no one loves you,
no one knows where you are,
no one wants you.
Looser than my normal slouch,
gooey liquid slowly descending
around all sides of the chair.
My body, a shaky, sweaty, dead blanket.