we wait for the bombs, all of us, as a city. we wait for the retaliation, we wait for the revenge that we know (deep down) we deserve. because we're selfish. we're a selfish, debauched, infinitely beautiful and damaged society. we wait for the bombs because what else can we do? how else could this all end except in fire? we started this so we wait for the bombs that will come any day. this is not a love story, this is a love story. this is not a love story,
You loved once, reluctantly. You tell yourself that she had a pretty voice and that must have been it, that her smile was nice and her arms felt like christmas and she had hands that were summer and you miss it, thats all. And you think you know everything, naturally. You know every mood, every move someone will make because you're good with brains. You're good with chemicals and you're good with eyes and reading people like yesterday's newspaper. And you think you know the future, you think you know what will happen and its so terrible, so so terrible. Sometimes you wish you weren't as good with eyes and with minds and with heads. Your stomach has twisted, your chest feels like it's full of
yesterday's newspaper and the back of your throat hurts all the time. And theres no fault but your own, which you accept
You stand on 97th flirting with the boarder of Harlem and Manhattan, between white business men drifting back from bars with a woman (always the same, it seems, with their brown hair and stumbling heels. With their possessive clutch on his elbow and their too loud laughs) and cars missing their rims, black circles of screw barely holding the tire in place and neighborhoods where men sit on the stoop all night and call to you. They call you 'baby', they call you 'sweetie', they call you 'whore' and you only listen to the first two and you only believe the last. You live on 97th, it seems, although that isn't entirely true now is it? No, you live in Chinatown behind a partition in someone's living room for five hundred a month and it always smells like strange food and your roommates don't look at you and you're pretty sure they Lysol the coach when you leave. 97th, 97th, 97th and Lex. It's okay though, because they call you 'baby' and they call you 'sweetie' and they don't call you a 'whore' until they pay you. Eye contact and a stumbling heel, like shooting fish in a barrel. Idiots, fools, fish. You were a fisherman and the whole fucking city was your net.