The thinnest childhood needles
Drawn slowly over veins,
Dripping battery acid
To draw the rings of Sundance.
A face so beautiful it burns
To dream of anything else.
Your hands are slaves to your lips
And asks how you dress yourself.
There’s nothing I can do
But move on down to Cannes,
And try to do my best
And live the life I have.
I’m tired of this dance
That earns me naught by laughs.
I’d like to make my story
Free of Gods and pederasts.
It shakes when it holds itself
In the painted velvet air.
A thousand wishful, sleepless nights
Seem so few when you compare
A million viewers watching you
On their blank TV’s
And the cold recline
Of fascist uniformity.
There’s nothing I can do
But move on down to Cannes,
And try to do my best
And live the life I have.
I’m tired of this dance
That earns me naught by laughs.
I’d like to make my story
Free of Gods and pederasts.
Once purity and freedom
Were what you were to people.
Now the soliciting of God
Is not your only treason.
A stamp on your face
To inflate your ratings.
A sign that the homeless
Will continue waiting.