From the recording Everything Matters
Lyrics
Furniture as it Relates to the Failure of Our Dreams
Mildred is in a precarious posture. Sitting sideways on a castaway couch, she picks at the mole on her forefinger, then abandons the endeavor with a percussive snort.
Bobby’s coming soon. Bobby, with his cowboy teeth and orange high-water, 38/29, marked down for clearance, creek water slacks. The inseam; so ineffective, as inches and inches of feral flesh, bare and iridescent, shine through - offset by a few rebar shafts of compromised collagen.
Too much information about leg hair? All comments are welcome.
Bobby would want to be a part of the whole thing. He’d want in. He’d want out. Then in. Then out. His transition from ecstatic to miasmic, a four ticket carny ride. Around and round, and around, she goes, but where she stops, well, you know, come on….?
So, where does the couch come from? The damn thing’s too ornate for the candor of the street. Not new, but boorish and cozy, as comforting as a collect call.
Hello, hello……. She hung up………………
And then, here we are, only feet away: Peg Leg Vic. An AMF number three pin, snugly secured to his cloven tibia-fibula combo. Proof you can nail any two things together if you got enough time and narcotics.
In the months with a ”B” in them, Vic staples a Bass Weegen, size six, to the alley end, to get a little more traction for high speed getaways, and the odd square dance contest, where firm footing might make the difference between the silver and the gold.
“Hey, you like the couch”?
Mildred pulls back a brocade cushion, to expose an assortment of cat scratched 78’s, all on the “Belvoir” label; “Marcy Ponds and the Dome Light Trio”; “The Bayonets”; “Baby Arturo”.
With a copper mine quickness, Vic grabs a black pancake, and circumgyrates it to the tip of his middle finger; the one with the tattoo of an organ erect. A grievous image for the majority, but good for a laugh when saluting the flag.
“You steal these records”?
“Nah, I found them in the ladies room of the Ritz Carlton. Maybe Bobby’ll want ‘em”?
“Bobby only wants what he can’ t have. So if you want to give it to him, don’t give it to him”.
And with that, the makeshift leg, sporting a butcher’s malfeasance, rejects its’ placement on the pavement. Mildred, beats a rats retreat, then relents, whomped aside her pericranium, with the knotty pine appendage; the lackwit, askew across her torso and the davenport.
“Rub my pin, Millie. You got the touch”.
“I won’t. You broke my second favorite tooth”.
“When’s Bobby coming”?
“I don’t know”.
“Well, I’ll go then, but you can find me where the “Don’t Walk” fades into the “Walk”.
And with a peristaltic ascension, he’s almost at the corner.
“Don’t spoil the surprise”.
“He’s already got a couch”.
“Not like this one”.
“No, not like that one”.