November 14, 2006
Fallen
Jazz broke the reflection of a streetlamp in your livingroom, jumping above the levels of white noise, distant traffic and someone’s sleeping sounds.
Come, baby, you sang, and turned my necklace into chains.
You caught a song fraction with long, dark fingers; snatched it from the air and tasted alien syllables. Whiskey and water, you thought, and mixed in some drums for strength.
Sprawled on your bed, I asked for Spanish guitars, and you added that. The drinks remained untouched.
I became an aquatic robot, sliding down pipelines and merging decibels, clank! from one, keeeshhh! from the next turn; echoes everywhere. You played blackjack on my body, turning cards infuriatingly slowly. Down, down, down another pipe I went, and I made a savage out of you; an outlaw flooding streets with jazz and shooting lampposts with laser eyes.
Come, baby, you said, and then shot me down so I’d never surrender.