"KEITH. YOU 'SLEEP?" He lies on his back behind the couch in the control room, drinking in sound and light like a pitcher plant, knees splayed in the air, legs rocking in leather pants, toes of his soles tapping out time in an infernal escape from consciousness, communication. What he's trying to tell the world comes out in leaps and bounds, in songs. And then when the song is ended he'd rather not hear any questions. There's the time you're supposed to sit back and really listen instead of get clever and start asking a whole lot of crap. Don't deny what got conjured. Take a sounding of what goes on inside.
"Keith." The marble wallpaper makes an awful din in my eyes. I know he can hear me, but what vistas he paints in shuteye landscape it's only ours to invent. Drank the bottle that went down.
In America they make it so you don't have to ask second questions after you take a swig. You know it's liquor, but unlike our scotch it reminds you every slip of the grip it's fuel, too.