That evening we were a wolfpack,
unmistakably. There was a time when ladies went
gaga in the rubbed-his-shaft-at-the-bar-over his-levi's
way, that tickle-me-elmo perpetuity.
We had made a color spectrum (whatever was left
of 'em) or had spectrovision; let's just say the light
sprinkled our faces like cloud glaze, in a wow way,
yes we were irrigated like hydroponics. Crankshaft...
Hookd on kronic werks fer me. So we're in this scene
together: the bar and just hours to go. Someone beautiful
is calling baby. Impossible germany, eventually geometry
is a turnip call to the still bulbs, turn up, turn up, you're up.
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