saturday night live.

i can hear bob dylans harmonica playing at someone elses stereo.
the tranies are downstairs selling their flesh or sharing their fun.
and im here reading a lot and trying to write you out of me a little.
my walk abouts are always helpful but the memories are already everywhere.

i walk around far away always trying the longest way back home.
dont get me wrong. i dont mind the noise and i like this world.
the streets here are wild with its rags and ghosts stumbling down.
i feel the loneliness of its silicon tits on girls with dicks.