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.

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