"Bon Voyage"

And promptly he hung up the phone

There was a doorbell ringing

So he snuck out onto the terrace

He said "If these were my last words,

would they even make print?

If all I had to say was simply over said

by those old heretics."

These words are counterfeit

Xeroxed off of memory

And no one's listening

...HEY...



Twilight dawns

All the champagne is gone

All that's left is left behind

Doorbells, still lives



"Since you're leaving

was it a hollowed out heart?

It seems like you've been yearning for some wordly position.

Somewhere you can curl up in a little ball."



It seems the world collapses

In the mother's womb

The place of birth

Where we're all condemned

It's the warm, sad, jaded end

Starving for salvation of a terrace

Drunk, tired, and alone

Farewell dead skin



These words are second-hand

They're dry

They're cracked-plastic lies

They're cheap old whores

Who wasted their lives

In search of the warmest womb