Was it you who slipped that paper moon underneath my door last night?
A telephone number, an invitation if there was anything I needed a long
way from home. The clock on the wall in the bar goes backwards
in an ambience of compilation jazz. The walls are black & shiny &
modified woman recline at tables with muscular men. The lights are
low & velvet, every coffee a holy chalice of distilled corrosive romance,
but in my head a light is shining – road goes straight ahead towards the sun.