I got a half-shot and two barrels and no one to tell me where to start. Whiskey doesn't do it anymore. I can tell by how I fall. It's more of a slant-to-tilt, head-over-heels way of tumbling. Before I just collapsed and melted, wanting to worry if my legs would ever work again.
It's not like that anymore.
Not like a half-shot would do much damage anyways. That's where the two barrels come in.
Sing me a song, baby. Just one. Make it loud for the neighbors. Tone up your voice and turn down the light - I'm ready for some old-fashioned high notes. Pitch, baby, pitch. That's where you get me. Make it high for me. Moan the syllables. I guarantee I won't forget you then.
Sing me a song, baby.
You mix bad blood and good times and you're just asking for a coppery aftertaste. Did you know that? We had plenty of the first and not enough of the second and I guess that's what the problem was. I tried, though. She wouldn't have anything to do with me loving her. Said I asked too many questions and cared about how she felt.
"I don't want that," her hugs would say.
I think of Manhattans on Westchester, waiting for her return.
This will be a documentation. Ego strokes - whether now or later - are always welcome. I'm waiting for my baby, typing away at a rented-out Dell computer. She'll come in and we'll get started. Barrels to belly. I'll make a mess on her bed one last time.
I think this is a bit unorthodox, typing my plan. But see. Whoever reads this, be they law or in-law, will find some sort of satisfaction, surely. History as it happens and all that jazz. I'll be famous. The As-He-Waits killer. Has a ring to it. AHW. The asshole whore. The kids will come up with a rhyme and a misread of my name. They always do.
Is that her?
Let's see. Pass the time before it passes you. Pretty corny, huh. I read that somewhere, which makes it a reference, so don't blame me for your groans.
She has the place pretty well clean. Bed behind me, tv to the side. Screens. That's all you see anymore. Everywhere there's a reflection and a need to be in a box. What's on tonight? Oh, why don't you sit down for an hour or two and flip through. I'm sure you'll find something. Every want and fear written up and acted out - who could they miss? Shotgun approach.
I can relate.
Oh, there she is. Red-with-white-strip Ford. She'll sing me a song, that one.
Sing me a song, baby. Sing it standing on your tip-toes and down on your soles. Doesn't matter to me.
But whoever reads this: You probably won't even know this woman. Won't care either way. But you'll read it. You'll read this whole thing and go back and do it again. That's what they always do. They slip and fall into another world because theirs isn't good enough.
Slant-to-tilt, head-over-heels way of tumbling. The way I fell for you, babydoll.
There she is. Unlocking the door, probably wondering about the keystrokes she hears. COME ON IN, I want to say. But I'd rather her be surprised.
"What are you doing here?" she asks. Like the answer would make it any clearer.
She can watch me die again. Sheas shaaking my arm. I pushed her, don't worry.
She can watch me go. My blood, baby. Clean it up and sing while you do.
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