Non-intellectuals are just that. Even over martinis they huff nail polish remover and bop along to the same goofy eighties Billy Idol and '60s nuggets that they pound out every drinking night (every night) memorizing solely by repetition and soullessly sucking the night out of a bottle of something cheap-but-good because that's what people like "us" do.
Every one of them skips out on the museum morning in deference to a long night of nothing and depthless deprecating non-art. Why do they all ignore the dramatic transpirings of last night's ridiculousness? Has the drama of doomed love been stepped over so swiftly?
Quite calling me Pole, Ringo!
There is music everywhere but in my heart, and thus I mask it with gin. Three olives and twenty minutes and nothing changes but the mask I wear as I slip it from Greek tragedy to Beat broken drinking dreams to smiling digi-pop daydreams at night.
Metal hammering, tinking on computers, "Erotic City" is trying so hard to make its way into these waves. The others' love makes me a part of the other. It's all just a night of discolored discourse and off-course offerings of manly love caressing that beautiful girl just because I was there.
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