"do you think you're better off alone?"
the words sing, in throwaway europop
and were you not weak for the synthetic riffs
that somehow connect with your being
you needn't write a word more
but for whatever reason there is only
so much class and reason you can conjure
and the rest is up for grabs, synthetic crass
is what holds your emotions and memories
of bygone years of disco doors slightly ajar
with music blasting for that second while
someone leaves, and in a drunken stupor
heads for the nearest meat van for a
pretend conversation with Ali, the man
somehow, beside the obligatory "legend"
there was that other legend you pursued,
the same that moved you in those riffs
or so you thought; you arrange your coat
and the cold drizzle on gray stone sets vapours
off, and you'd better be off, alone
but somehow the word
no longer seems cold, its sweetness
tells you you're not alone
you know the mist the rain the cold the pain
the wish the sigh the moon the cry
the half-mumbled prayer
like scribbles on a paper
like steps with a crutch
that word you forgot
but remembered to convey
lent you that thread
that led you to feel
you're not alone
after all
