January 19th, 2015


Interference, Thom Yorke, 2014

In the future we will change our numbers 
and lose contact. 

My muscles itch and my fingers are going too fast
and this is not mania, it's fear and stress, but the smell
of my own body alarms me.

There are accountants counting the perforated lines
in the paper

all the paper

I have gotten paper cuts worse than this,
though

I will survive without sutures 

my best bet is gut wrenching

an addict is always an addict,
even if he has never been one

not for nothing, but latent isn't nothing
latent is your lips before they meet mine

and I don't even want to go there,
to that moment after contact,
with fear still rattling around in
the back of my throat, where hope
should be, once you've parted my will
with your tongue.

Leave it be. It doesn't even belong to me.  

This, and everything, is more
complicated than what the tiny spider
is weaving beneath the window

I used to tell stories, but all I see
now is a blond wood bar
and the sticky beer print of glass
after glass

and all the lies that came tumbling
from my lips in smiles.

I'm sorry to any man I've ever hurt.
I'm sorry to any man I've ever pleased.

None of it was true. 

I don't have the right to interfere, to interfere.