Eggsalad and Quigley on Horseback

I been thinking I'd like to see
Your eyes open up real wide
The minute that you see me
But if you don't come through
I wouldn't wait for you
I understand that everyone goes disappearing
Into the greater grey that covers over everyday
And hovers in the distance...
I've been up all night

There are those grating flash metal panes of windows closing on the Chip Chik Inn, crashing in the later evening haze of muddled pink-orange sweeping streetlight dances that shadows play. It's the same ol' clanking of my eyes, tinned and tired of the straining in daylight hours. I could sleep all day to sit up and here that awful music rock me into the nightlines that angels spout naked on the stage. Several fingers of witches brew draining on the temples, already stewed from text and tampering [dabbling] with the lives that sit charged. Gotta be protons, highly positive, no chance to gain that slope-edged sense of reality that way. So much lonelier now with the steel screens plating the world, a highly reflective life, leading to one not helping but seeing the broader image of deep set smiles and dimpled sneers so soul-licked and puckered awaiting the first smear of blood on the sheet.
All monsters in moonlight like living by fire flame and sainted hoods. We rock the angels in their cribs and whisper into their dreams, wondering if the last bruise we left will ever settle back and wind away, graying as we do at the temples and chin. Hoary they call it. Dead to be, maybe. Funny how time tears away while we count its rapid token taking. I was 81 last second I checked, but I still don't know if it was just last year when I held out my hand in earnest. Honest [token].
Another puff of hale hell winding back on the tips of their toes, they've always been the ones to pirouette on shadows' bones. The shutters dropping the screeching jazz beats so vulgar to the 40's. Jive and forget life. That's the key to living, the only impediment is the thing itself that everyone tries to make sense of.
I need a new god maybe. Someone to lay down the blame on me so I stop forgetting to, but there's already a few of those, one fogey, a million and one sheep, a guy with a silly purple skull cap. [sad]I am, or rather I was, a voter. I voted for living, possibly mistaken on the terms, I voted for fucking up. I here Frankie going to Hollywood in the bus traffic slums, cracking pavement like footsteps of the men who have no home.
We walk, they and I. Washing the drab colors from minds, giving a match to the uninspired, building up a house in a city for someone else. The last thing that was mine, was that single melody. A clanking scratch of aluminum and steel, a gust and rattle of double glazed banshees waking me from some poor thought-out reverie on a city block above the thumping street, still beating with the drumming thumbing index fingers pointing to the next big goal. I wanna be here, go there, stay up to see the dusk light fade, I wanna be ten again, married, childless and poor, I wanna save a seal, go to Vegas and be a millionaire. You get the idea I think. It's a street of meager dreams that calls me in. Maybe just the music is enough to keep me thinking the great and passionate life is reeling beyond the next horizon or eclipse. It's home somehow, all puzzles and jagged glass broken on my doorstep.
Cheers.