soundtrack for the night.
We stumble through downtown
on mechanical horses, skidding
our way from Main to Pacific.
Emerging from the frozen parking lot
we drink in a blank room surrounded
by blank faces and
the jarring scar of scratch
music.
Punctuation means nothing here,
'til the morning comes.
Meaningless rhythms gyrate the useless,
giving them an excuse to celebrate
with their acquaintances
on a Friday night.
One only needs to say four letters,
to draw blank bodies to the art district
to what fur-coats say are
future sounds: B.Y.O.B.
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