transatlantic disco

k, i think i'm ready to admit it.
the ex was right. who the fuck
would put up with my shit?

oh well. if it putting up with my shit
means i have to put up with your abuse
the answer is no thanks. that's why yr ex.

i mean i'm ok. a bit wacked but who isn't?
most days i mean. what was it you said
expect too much. you certainly know
the beauty of lowering yours. and i thought
the years in the ghetto and the mommy trail
would have inured me to loss, but the paper
lamp is once again broken and the disco balls
have fallen into the sea. no one

notices the dances as they catch flame
and head for the captain's table. viola
flambe je suisse franc. that made no babelsense
at all. even as metaphor.

so we're doing the retro thing
got the orbison glasses and poodle
skirts ain't we got fun.
the hood ornament necklaces the ford
fairlane, appache warriors from the barrios
like tu chenga. it's a melting pot
headed for an iceberg. lets' hope
this time they didn't forget the
hair dryers. just aim them at the ice
add a li'l hairspray, some axe
and the roller blade incident
and we can call it dance dance fever
till saturday nite gets home.