+ The Strokes and Regina Spektor: Modern Girls and Old Fashioned Men
The last poem I’ll write for a girl (while I wait for a woman)
I pay homage to the queen of no subject (who won’t let me lay upon her chest like she does her favorite book)
Directly from my neurotic bed (which she has made her own) I lie here in the anguish of her extremely perfect geometry.
She gets confused, much too loud, and I dare report the she is as believable as a miracle. Even two ounces of regret can’t bring me to my knees.
The frustration of her dress is a painless disaster as long as I know I’m gathering her thoughts, (they always drip slowly) her mistakes, and her innocence.
She keeps bringing me to the book. To her highlighted Lolita sections. She brings me to the mirror. She kisses the hallucination to feed the commitment.
I think of the timestamp to all this. Trying to capture my
moments with the queen of no subject, is like trying to see in the dark.