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I think we need more post-coital and less post-rock. |
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Feels like the build-up takes forever but you never get me off. |
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You pull your dress over your face, |
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And I stare down towards my chest, |
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Chastise both our greasy hair, |
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Wonder whose gut is the softest. |
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Stand with my ear to the door listening to the landing floorboards, |
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Working out when will be safe to dash from mattress to your bathroom, |
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Where I ball my fingers into fists until my knuckles glow bright white, |
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Press the heels into eye sockets 'til I see the flashing lights. |
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Stop me when my stories change/ |
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When they have started to repeat, |
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'Cause last time I was a mess of sleep of icy feet. |
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So baby; |
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All apologies. |
|
It was going to happen, |
|
inevitably. |
|
I think we need more post-coital and less post-rock. |
|
Feels like the build-up takes forever but you never touch my cock and what exactly do you mean now, |
|
By "what can you even eat? |
|
And how does that affect how I'll get off this evening?". |
|
I flew down South to Mexico had a minor realization |
|
I understood why kids draw the sun with its rays emanating. |
|
And the beams broke the clouds, |
|
The sky looked like a concertina I'd sat on in my pocket for weeks, |
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Folded up from a picture. |
|
I've been playing straight chicken with gay girls (it's never enough), |
|
She keeps on pulling the peace sign (and it seems like a taunt), |
|
She licked a glaze on her lips, |
|
They shone like battleship grey. |
|
She never liked the wisdom I gave: |
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"Some people give themselves to religion, |
|
Some people give themselves to a cause, |
|
Some people give themselves to a lover, |
|
I have to give my self to goals". |
|
So baby; |
|
All apologies. |
|
It was going to happen, |
|
Inevitably. |
|
And if it helps, |
|
I mean, |
|
Even slightly at all, |
|
It's best to dust yourself down and get straight back on the whorse. |
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I condescend a smile and wink directly at the camera. |
|
I leave you led in both our scents as I tip-toe out the backdoor. |
|
I skid down icy streets and view my face in the reflection of a high street lingerie store, |
|
Though it wasn't my intention. |
|
I phone my friends and family to gather round the television; |
|
The talking heads count down the most heart-wrenching break ups of all time. |
|
Imagine the great sense of waste, |
|
The indignity, |
|
the embarrassment, |
|
When not a single one of that whole century was mine. |
