These days I'm in transit
a mouth full of gasoline and spark plugs
But I still have turpentine for blood
and I'll always return to that which I am made of
like Jackie to her organ and
Charlton to his gun
There have been days when travel was a barefoot waltz across an oriental rug
but now foreign films and take-out
only increase my habitual wandering lust
And I've been told I could replace my need with want
take a lover to me instead of my feet to France
and I suppose there's some point in that
but as he exhales a mess of smoke and rejected oxygen:
I can't see it.
So when I fight against his swaddling hands
a vicious cacophony of misguided sexual plans
I think about taking a train
and throwing all his things from a seventeenth floor balcony
Or how I'd prefer to be digging my naked toes into a
garbage filled street gutter in northern Amsterdam
than to place either of my hands
on his bare skin