I don’t know, man. My stressed brain is free associating. It’s been a long week. This is something vaguely space-y for an old friend.
They bid you sit, and praised your decorum,
and then the awful fashion show began.
You shuddered at the glassy eyes of fans
advertising other forms of boredom.
A glass, a lens, a camera… an eye.
The closer you look, the less you can see,
nothing but an empty facsimile,
a sack of impulse calling itself “I.”
Broadcasting in wide band at all hours.
The neon signs have come between you and I.
But lady, I still swear by all flowers,
I always worshiped your shadow. Don’t cry –
when we were young and still had magic powers,
I broadcasted your name into the sky.