Saint James

The streets are still out there  
and people still go to bars
and die burning on the interstate  

Dancing twisted metal yawning inside  
and hot  

Your best friend talking about work  
and how the stars will somehow save him  

Black sky watching still  
inside the television eats ego  
brazen and naked beneath half torn sheets  

I take inventory of the fridge  
my gut is a sloppy drunk
unaware of the damage
like me  
 
Couches are coffins  
and girlfriends are always tired
 
Listen man, I understand jazz  
 
I just can't dance anymore