At night, things were usually usual. The stars came out, queer, out of the toy closet, playing straight-faced a gay hand. We’ve all been there, more or less, distant, but seen from our pasts. Most people except the ones closest to them, weren’t surprised, and they still had to use lorgnettes and had lap dogs, and were wrong. Especially about desire, the falling stars. If you say, it’s drama, disastrous…It’s us. I love kissing you.
The closets were toys and he took a hammer to’ em to see how they worked. They played like mirrors that took the stage together, determined to change the ballet and dance a different end and be free, a bit, once again.
Who’s the puppet of whose lips? What pain, binary, single bit?
For a long time you’ve become, and for a time escaped. To play in disaster a jug and spoons upon your knee, the stars came out anew, with a fresh leash but through the cradle on the same painted wheels. Stonewall 'em all. Wear a muzzle of live microphones astraddle your jaw.
It's an old song, but it's standard, and belongs to you when you share it. It's not for me, but I want you to have it. Propose. Anything goes. God knows, I won't oppose.