The boy who doles out the good times
The peripheral nighttime vision
The perennial closing-time decision
I know his silhouette
wears a smoking halo
And I know this type of glittering,
gaudy, gypsy love.
Love which cannot see the day
Love which sunlight
does not acknowledge
And in this way I take him in
take him home
Wash his wounds with whiskey
Paint his body
in lipstick and blood
Paint him darker than
the omnipotent night
I give his body crescent moons
to light my own way
Carve my own radiance
on his form
I extract my joy from his veins
Is this just one more way
to be drunk?
One more escape?
Is this just one more type
of good time
he gives?
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