Friday, 7 April 2017

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
                    (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?
                             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.

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