I once lived next door to a bourgeois couple
they seemed pleasant enough
but in the evenings I’d hear them fight
I phoned them up, left a message on their voice mail
said: I have a headache, please not tonight

my apartment was small but was filled with books and records
it comforted me how so many had created so much
the phone never rang but sometimes I’d look out my window
wonder how I had fallen so far out of touch

I’m tired, I’m sad, but I still want to generate audience
without one more reader I’m just not sure I can go on
they’re fighting again, the walls are so thin in this palace
in one hundred years, it’s a cliché, but we’ll all be gone


I once lived next door to a bourgeois couple
they seemed pleasant enough
but in the evenings I’d hear them fight
I phoned them up, left a message on their voice mail
said: I have a headache, please not tonight

they’re fighting again
I can see through the walls of their argument
the guitar on the table is sadly still missing a string
I’ve lived here a year
watched my thoughts disappear in this atmosphere
they’ve lived here a year ever since they were married last spring