I'm having milk shot into my arm
And getting off on bumps on the road
To be happier and less alarmed
At the state of things
At being without wings
And sweet dealings of prolonged engagement.

It's just when my limbs go weak and my lips can't speak
Protests against coarse-haired men
That I fall deep into some coffee stained furore
And curl into anyone

Mortarboards tip and topple their way to the ground
Without dignity and with no pretence of significance
Like any old hat or girl

If I could change my disposition from melancholic to sanguine
I'd be a fine specimen to lay your hands upon and sigh
Thanks to moon-speckled faces and chaotic worlds
That probably exist without me.

I'd paint my house blue and we'd just live, me and you
In azure drenched rooms where the sky comes through.

And at night you'll hold me and if it's cold
I'd braid my hair around you and fold
My fingers into little papery suns and stars
To keep darkness away.

The machine that engulfed me spent most of it's time
Demure and stony-faced
Until one day some elements shifted, some tiny interplanetary
Drift of objects
Made his gears and parts grind wrong and in one stupid second
My shirt was caught
And we were both scared.