You are not my friend yet
I can call upon you any time,
If I have a dime, you have the time to
Illuminate the night and
Fill me with a familiar haze.
I know your face, it’s the same every time
but I call your cherry every city lit bright with
You can be my ticket to nihilist paradise,
you’re Paris on fire, and Cali at twilight
with those hot boys and their boards of every type,
chasing after blonde hair and pert flesh,
or a bowl to bring a fire to-
you know like I do that they will forget the mire
of their souls until it chases them down.
When they’ll be too old for it to matter much,
Ashes to ashes, the dust of my dust.
I know your place, in the neatly wrapped box
that you came in, fragile and fugacious like mine.
The opening wrapped in cellophane like a hymen once was-
The parody of purity, the concept of a gift
on a planet made to waste such as this.
When I snub you out, you don’t lament.
You fold upon yourself like an oragami heart and
the lights in your city go out without a shout
Goodnight Paris, I won’t miss you.
California, you were not mine.
Goodnight to the concept of me and then you,
Push me into the glass ashtray and leave no doubt
about worth or wealth or truth.