My clothes brought home the smell of Brite Boy
and no matter what I did I could not eliminate
what happened with the brass and what occurred
there in the dim hallways also under the florescence
Would anyone care if I explained completely?
Who cares about the night time and the moon
besides lunatics and poets and custodians
on their back and forth haunts from buildings
too old to clean too used to care too tired
to be awake too burnt to wash too trashed
to see too lazy to dream too hungry to eat
too tired to sleep too married to fuck much
too thirsty to look at the moon her stars falling
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