7/30: Father John Misty Kills Me In My Sleep

If it was the maintenance guy
                    you'd think I'd recognize his voice
even stirred from sleep, the
soft blankets in the wash the
                     scratchy ones I keep because memories
waking me up when sirens
                      or neighbors fucking don't.

In the A.M. I listened to
Father John Misty
play the same two chords
over roughly the same beat
expressing largely the same
sentiment
                    (but putting forward different evidence)

and I had to agree
that it was brilliant.

                    At least, at four a.m. -- when will I
drop back off? five a.m now

shouts down the

hall, around the corner, I'm guessing, I've gotten

good at the guessing

but this one sounds more dangerous

and my window is not an escape

window, so if this is a rampage, this is how I go,

naked under scratchy

blankets, a folk singer roughly

my age

mocking me for living.

Eh well. The slow click of a vacuum.

Those maintenance guys really don't sleep, do they?

Safety

                             unless horror rules apply, in which

the vacuum

is also

                              the weapon.

Once you're in the halls, there's

a variety of stairwells, but if

a killer bursts into your studio

you're fucked.