Sure and it's just the little pains of life just life and only just you see I now it's like that, it's not your fault it's just New York the way it turns everything to fever and nightmare and that's just the way you like it! Blue skies, nothing but blue skies looking for blue skies, sky's all gone. ... How can anyone have a normal life in New York? well nobody can. that's why we're here, but we all adapt somehow, so why push it, why push it out the window of the 33rd floor and you're sorry you say you are so sorry and last night was the worst night the longest night of my life and you weren't there and I don't want you to be sorry ... And don't you find that having to be someone you aren't can be a strain sometimes? This is all just romantic fallout I cancel the airstrike on your loft and awake in the ruins of my own calm as a triple beam of sunlight ... I want you to kneel like a doggie in the dark while I glatter and pummel the perfect globes of your snow white ass until they glow like the midnight special and shine shine shine their everlovin' light on me, until they're as red as my eyes instead I simply kneel and I say pray for small mercies and small mercies might pray for you.
-excerpt from Get Well Soon, a poem by Max Blagg from his book "Pink Instruments"Â
