12th April 2031 11:11pm
It’s Ravi’s 43rd birthday. He’s feeling old at an unrelated office party. He thinks the new north-eastern intern might have a thing for him. Ravi decides to be a boss.
I am worn by the objects that surround me.
Flamingo girls with their arcs and curls.
Broad shouldered bears, tables and chairs.
Skipping about on hallowed ground, with fire in their hair.
Dancing in slow motion, pheromones in the slipstream.
Skipping about on hallowed ground, but see if I care.
I am wasted on the young, so full of sh…
Faded around the edges.
Godspeed a swallow to pop the lid.
I really shouldn't be so hard on myself.
I really shouldn’t be so…
But the old fashioned girl with the chicka chicka chinese eyes,
that wrinkle round the corners, when she's trying to hide a smile.
She just wants a man, she wants a cat.
She wants a man that thinks and makes shapes like a cat.
A brand new car, an inflatable hat rack.
5 pounds lost and a Birkin bag.
Whiter teeth, maybe better breeding,
and a body pillow that can return her feelings.
Toothpaste that tastes like rain,
and a father figure to make it all OK.
But I’m certain that she'd settle for a little
eye contact, to save her day.
So I’ll walk up to her spot on the wall,
ignore her and walk away.
(Pinkman: s’right bitch)
Walk right up to her spot on the wall,
and put her in her place.
But I am worn.
And I just wanna go home.
Home. Oh take me home.
My little piece of New York, on the 21st floor.
My faux shark skin slippers,
my faux Hugh Hefner robe,
92 Chivas and Idduki gold.
Little housebroken wife,
swimmin’ in her iPhone.
Reading Osho on the interweb
to better decorate her soul.
(Please don't take me home)
get over here.
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