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(Buck 65)
The women here are just like in magazines
Stern
Too precious
Pissy
Ferocious
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Just so
Bodies like twelve-year old boys
Faces like casino poker dealers
Plastic and distant
They look right through you
And are only interested in your money
And they all smoke
Gorgeous and boring
Who are they talking to on their tiny phones?
Psychics
Drug dealers
Crisis line operators or maybe the ghost of Serge Gainsbourg
What music do they listen to?
Or do they listen to music at all?
Whole world blown apart
I hate to think we’ve grown apart
Kicking a tin can
Along Rue Boneparte
Wind in my ears
My hands are getting soft
Shoes on
Trying to chew on what I'd bitten off
Atrophy setting in
Now I’m feeling lonely
Mostly
Bells on Sunday
Got me felling holy ghostly
Who’s drinking the booze
Who’s singing the blues
Hangman’s messenger is bringing the news
I’ve got two weeks left and then it’s back to the mill
Strength in my legs is practically nil
I’m swinging an imaginary bat at some imaginary pitches
And bitching like a typical Sagittarius
I’m out of my element and up to my neck
I’m psychic
Extra sensitive and I don’t like it
Not one bit
I’m feeling rather low on charm
Feeling in my chest
And tingle in my throwing arm

Let's play two
There may not be a tomorrow
Magpies
Wiener dogs
Let's at least shag flies
No run limit
No in-field fly rule
I haven’t felt this alone since high school

I write it in graffiti
With a wonderful bubble letter
Two most glorious words
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Amusements and curiosities
The greatest nostalgia is that for what has never truly been
No more Ted Williams
No more Jimmy Rogers
No more Hemingway
No more Henry Miller
No more amusements and curiosities
No one seems to know the date
It rains here everyday
Boredom is beginning to creep in
In a heavy way
I’m restless and withered
Faces all turned to stone
Dishwater grey
Smells like a nursing home
I dig in my pockets
And find that the love’s gone
Out in the street
With my uniform and gloves on
Hands tied behind my back
Still can’t get my kicks
Maybe I’ll fix up
When the weather picks up
I wander the field
And listen for the curtain call
I’m certain to always be the last to know first of all
And secondly
I’m technically all out of commission
I gather my things but I’d rather be fishing
I’m landlocked and worn out
Working with the new machine
Diamonds in the dirt are too far away and few between
So dress me up and take me out
Still can’t make me drink
I’m at my limit
Cold and getting older by the minute