Not A Cobra, A Dream.

“All that you can’t leave behind, that’s what fucks with you boy,” she said as I walked out of the open door of the dressing room at Filene’s. Made me feel like a thousand bucks even though the suit was less than half that.
I said, “I know, but to punctuate is just too hard, and you are not available, or so that’s what I hear, or wouldn’t make yourself so, because you understand my psychological dilemna so thoroughly.”
I took the suit, and another and we left that place, and then to the tailor, and measurement where I realized that just as the universe is expanding, I too am expanding… take a walk, shun the sedentary lifestyle.
We went back to her place for a beer or two, and she had a quarter bottle of whisky, and some grain alcohol her daddy had procured for her a couple of years back, and a vintage bottle of Carlo Rossi, and the shit really hit the fan.
I cannot flirt you must first realize, unless I do it here, and that is no kind of way for the whole thing to go down. I can write of you before or after I fall asleep, I can make strange faces toward the moon too. My body can become a somnambulist at the turn of a phrase, and this latter thing is what concerns me the most.
Me walking ’round sleeping and you in a henhouse, nuthouse, riotact, slave cell, and me walking through the night with vacancy in heart, bed and mind.
I don’t know what the sexiest song that I have ever heard is, but every song I have ever heard that I really liked made me feel sexy in some way. Forgot to mention Afghan Whigs, and you were right about Nina Simone, I’ve got her in my disc player which apparently granted considerable mileage at the end of a night.
But you are right, all that I can’t seem to leave behind haunts me, I can see the future just as brightly as all getout, but the subdued hues of the past seem to strike chords that cannot be interrupted. I walk through Oakland Cemetery tonight with a half stallion, a half prince, a whole heart and a half head – to your house, where I hope the cobra does not bow it’s neck, does not make a hiss, does not come from the basket. I have fife in hand, and multitudes in heart.
Please forgive me, all I said could never be true.