Friday, March 25, 2005

Vague (1998)

She (exotic, an original) was probably out & about
rock-climbing or playing flute in her band;
I was home with cheese toast reading Wittgenstein.

I couldn't remember what her job was
or which college she was at -
I'd put too many braincells to the flame
like a Nazi bonfiring History.

Whether vital stats were that important remained unclear
like the night I smoked that green opportunity
last week, & just didn't matter.

Because in another corner
of the city schoolboys chatted, waited outside the
sliding doors for their executive powerdressing
girlfriends, & skaters chewed chewy.

Still, I was fucked if I
could remember her phonenumber.

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