Carousel

Ah, stick it way in further this time, honey,
attempting best to find that pesky emptiness,
let’s bring to superfluity for a couple of seconds,
then wonder what could be on the television,
before clawing at your face thinking it’s aflame.

Obviously, since there ain’t much left besides,
down to dry bottles and light film upon razors,
so now it’s just us lovers cooking in lead spoons,
not afraid of needles like a damn child anymore,
clearing an easier path for both heaven and hell.

Varoom, peeling these lurid streets in our hallway,
buzzing within dirty piles of carpet and furniture,
if only the neighbors could witness these races,
without spilling breakfast and calling the cops,
plummeting our height from then on indefinitely.

Certainly, we’ll fly past inspection above an airport,
land in the middle of a game on that outdoor stadium,
raise our right hands and swear to serve and protect,
as we fling our birling heads over temples of marble,
forming spectacular fountains in every blessed impact.

Jesus, bow your ruthless frame for my sleazy ottoman,
inquire on psychopathic dad when he’ll have tea ready,
stack that huge elephant graveyard to build my mansion,
while you grovel and beg for your very mean existence,
and don’t forget that I can promptly give this another turn.