kind of a rewrite

Electric Light Orchestra



You lie on your back, singing,

don’t bring me down.


We’re both on the roof,

but only one of us falling –

it’s that kind of party. 


Pop tarts, cigarettes, grape soda —

a broken razor we use

to cut the bad out,

a pink lighter that almost works.


The scenery passes us

three times in black and white.

Your glasses wobble, rise like stoned butterflies.


I’ve tried various ways to forget:

flowers, drugs, electrocution.


The lawn after,

a mouthful of poison emeralds.


It’s been so long, everything smells

like the back of someone’s van;

even the dog ducks away, refusing to talk.