At the end of the
past the dank fluorescent
around a shadowy corner,
I saw her face.
It lay upon a pillow and changed
shapes in the moonlight.
So she became everywoman to me.
And at the crumbling corner
stood the edge of the apocalypse,
where the pallor of people grayed,
and where dark, dislocated little wars
were invented in the name of nothing much,
there we drank things in.
At the last heady outpost of the promised country,
where faces glowed dark gold
and the psychedelic frenzy lasted until early,
we lost and gained innocence a thousand times.
Oh gold, gold, gold light on the edge
of midnight blue madness; really on the very edge.
There we had to help save the world every night;
dancing among the faces strange and familiar
all the forgotten dances.
And there the barkeeper would come
and slap us on the back.
I guess one of the last who really knew the score.