A safe spot, parked gondola, a cassette player and whiskey. Drinking alone again, I'm caught and twisted. Love isn't working, whiskey's not working, morphine's not helping, I'm hopeless and homeless in strange cities.
Park bench bunk beds, cardboard mattresses, bugs in my hair, formaldehyde in my cigarettes, this is not the New York I dreamed of. Riots lost their mystique and boys have lost their charm. Cars on fire are just cars on fire. My heart is empty and I need a fix.
Japanese businessmen like pretty girls and will take you to Thai dinners and give you money,
if you bathe first.
Wading through fire makes the skin weak, then tough, making strong mothers of daughters. Dead bodies tell no tales, but the ones who live write poetry.