there is a space between the calls
and i attempt sleep
but you’re still here
even when
everything’s locked
and the drums
are banging while the
spanish guitars program
generative and nostalgic
fevers in my dreams,
there is a space between the
printed storyboards where
memory is whited.
the record jumps and
pulls me down,
while you watch the needle
the atmosphere becomes stale
and ancient… i get up
and step into a party
but with foreign
entrance music
bouncy and scratchy
i float. with a sedated smile
and with the coy sway
of a secret spy
you should leave
i say