If there should be anything, there should be the taste of whiskey in our love.
If there should be anything, there should be the gray insanity of spacewalker in our work.
If there should be anything, there should be the evolution of water against ships in our benediction.
There should be Kubrick’s smokey visualization, there should be Dylan’s blow through the pipe, there should be Cohen’s ‘famous blue raincoat’…
There should be me, there should be you;
my hallucinating lover’s floating breasts, there should be you.
There shouldn’t be these crisscross irons of subjugation when you want to go clear for your rainy sex,
there shouldn’t be any car through the boulevard up to ocean.
There shouldn’t be any of Dali’s sarcastic surrealism before any liquor store.
There should always be saliva in our lips sweetheart…
But these sheets of fire and orgasms between us; these shouldn’t be there.
Me after gulping down the pint of brown whiskey through hallelujah…There shouldn’t be any inspiration.