Mixed Modern Love
Stars are out tonight gleaming like blackened sunshine. All is well in Gotham City, steel on the skyline, sky made of glass, but something about the clouds’ mixed modern love gets me to church: time terrifies. The girl on the seesaw is laughing like a yo-yo. What is the answer to the question of you, hooked to the silver screen, a little box with a mirror and a tongue inside?
Sometimes I fear the whole world is queer. It’s mainly a physical thing. I’m always crashing the same red love machine, gormless, and the baying crowd right there. Her sunken dream chaos is calling me intelligent — a curve yr behind has (put all my eggs in a postmodern guess-I-must-be-dumb song).
Screaming above Central London, aristocrats on a mountain and the spiders from Mars party like it’s dredging the ocean; cars burn rubber in my pants. A wallet drops and money flies into the midday sun’s systematic overthrow of the underclass. Mugged by reality, animals strike curious poses, turn and face the strange bubble bath I’m floating in — a most peculiar violent room fighting with lovers past. Dignity is valuable, BATMAN …
… came down hard on the street Jimmy lives on, screwed-up eyes floating this joker’s boat.
And I spoke into his eyes, the kind you find in a second-hand store: “Take your protein pills, America, God shed his grace on thee, like weeds on a rockface. I gave you all my money, silver and gold, cream, this shallow orb, a bucket filled with squirreled meat.” Then I got the small red box and I didn’t know what to do as I was making love with his ego, its branches throwing shade.
When I touch a body like yours — like some cat from Japan, tall in this one-room jungle-monkey-cage overlooking the ocean — I think my spaceship knows which way to go. I’ve seen the future: it will be scary monsters and super creeps bending sound on a mushroom cloud. But the nurse doesn’t care, didn’t have the decency to change the sheets. She’s not sure if you’re a boy or a girl. I wish we were all nude, I wish there was no black and white in a city full of flowers, serious rain, purple moonlight.
It’s much harder in the afterworld, learning to live with someone’s depression in an ocean of violets in bloom. I watch the ripples change their size, like every good boy should. I used to let you wear all my clothes, my diamonds and pearls, in the event that this fantastic voyage might turn to erosion underneath your hair.
He coughed and shook his crumpled wings. Maybe he just needs a good talker to give him a good talking to, before the animals awake, out of time, and all the children boogie. This is what it sounds like when doves take your passport and shoes. Something in the water does not compute, mixed with other colours—but she’s happy in the red, my nuclear baby, my idiot lemon crush.
(Sources: alternated Bowie and Prince lyrics.)
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