It's three in the morning.

Cautious little tale

I dreamt of the moving train again.
This time I'm staring from the outside.

I see my own perilous reflection in uncomfortable confine.

Wishing to walk up the stairs again,
Sole against the soft fur of the corridor,
Old screws ringing dangerously by my ears,
Like a bag of copper dice,
In a tin can at all the cheap dive bars.

I resonant with the ones dearest to me,
Let it be seven bases in a shaker,
Music of bad religion,
Woman, polished, not waxed.
And poems as well as fiction.

Those under the tip of my finger,
Those floating in the air as a spiral to the sky,
Got slammed down by the writer like killing a fly,
Plop!
As the words got printed down and stabilized,
As ink on paper.

I wish this to the past and present and future.
Weather If I'm back on the train,
Or still wavering in the land of little convictions.

And brother, low have you fallen.
It's rich coming from me I know.
I'm the one suppose to stroll up to them whores at the death of the hour, when neons kill the rotting in the air.

I'm suppose to walk up to her,
Tell jokes about myself in a manner of bluffing,
Tell jokes about others as if
I'm of better intention.

But not me,
I had my fair share of mistakes.
I hope you can see it,
before she teaches you.
Sometimes, some people are better off in a bag.
A nice little plastic bag in toy stores or sex shops.
I've seen them more than my willing counts.

I'm no mentor, role model,
But in between a player's mentality.
I'd still warn you,
uncalled and confidently.

You won't be happy.
She won't be off when the clock strikes.
She'd be off when the friends ran out,
When the lousy fuck calls.
When you stop picturing her as she.