The Farewell Party

Bon Voyage 
And promptly he hung up the phone 
There was a doorbell ringing 
So he snuck out onto the terrace 
He said If these were my last words, 
 would they even make print? 
 If all I had to say was simply over said 
 by those old heretics. 
These words are counterfeit 
Xeroxed off of memory 
And no one's listening 
...HEY... 

Twilight dawns 
All the champagne is gone 
All that's left is left behind 
Doorbells, still lives 

Since you're leaving 
 was it a hollowed out heart? 
 It seems like you've been yearning for some wordly position. 
 Somewhere you can curl up in a little ball. 

It seems the world collapses 
In the mother's womb 
The place of birth 
Where we're all condemned 
It's the warm, sad, jaded end 
Starving for salvation of a terrace 
Drunk, tired, and alone 
Farewell dead skin 

These words are second-hand 
They're dry 
They're cracked-plastic lies 
They're cheap old whores 
Who wasted their lives 
In search of the warmest womb