45 rpm

Don’t you hate it when you pick up a faux 17th century goblet and when you take a sip you lock lips with a skeleton.

They tell me I’m at the wrong party because I’m not dead yet.

I can have this one dance but I should leave

You can die tomorrow or yesterday we’re not stragglers for time they say

But if you are only dreaming you can’t stay.

At the court of the sun king it’s always night.

Irony they say, is in splendid supply and twist the daggers under their shirt to their advantage

I’ve never had better

The reflection is empty but so was my life
I’m saving a lot of time always being dressed for the occasion

Grim, but in glided rags gliding over polished floors slick with red

At the hall before I leave I turn once, twice and the dream blurs. 45 rpm.

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