Made for dancing somehow
Took to the eastend chinatown
with a serious chunk of slave waste they called fantasy
with a chip on her shoulder that no weight could get under
with a sadness in her lips
no kiss could love better; noone could reach; nothing could touch
The swiftness of it all left her feeling bewildered
guys acting like it was strictly transaction
like the money would be useful
in wiping their juices off your life
like it'll ever even matter whose hand they grease
its the grease that has left a stain
not the man
It's not the transaction
its the need for the transaction
the impersonal method of intimate involvement
that puts her there on the street
misdirected energy outflowing in every possible direction
flowing somewhat awkwardly in every deeper part of the street
dreams awash with grease all pooling up on the side streets
mingling with whatever waste is there
misdirected flow leading nowhere
this is a common place
With the toenails that so often need polishing
oh why the off-standing lady
with her blue dress hanging on for dear life
slinking around her shoulders and waist
a loose lizard skin
falling away
like the heart in her eyes every time...
one missed grab
and ahold again how she streaks in the window running past
allowed for a second to glimpse herself in that static dream
there is nothing to delight her
but that the dream waits somewhere again
and in the rain
her passing by, will find it
by some chance
in some great dress meant for clinging and removing easily..
like her dreams..
she will find the coil of her heart made for dancing
somehow
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