I wish I had an anecdote about Blacklow Brow.
It entangles the tongue, there was never any beauty in that place,
just a road where all the livers of my youth got ruined
and climbing out of the underpass caught the whiff of weed
and nothing lies there that can be dug up, don’t ask.
I kissed a girl I never loved right there, a dog bark-sang to us
and I saw a shadow of disdain in his sunken eyes.
You can be false or just thrifty with the truth, like declaring love.
I’m tired of beauty already, it’s over-used.
I woke, with that girl to Sweet Child O’Mine, it sounds now archaic,
when you leave a bed so quickly you forget you ever slept there,
someone else succeeded me, someone stayed to listen.
At least I never let that night become an anecdote,
When I promised her Prague we had no blanket, we forgot the cold.