In Search of the Grift

Given the choice between a voice and reason,
I would rather lay here in this field of lethargic dreams, nostalgic and crestfallen. Won't you lie with me? Won't you dream with me? Who else would I share this fleeting dream with?

Who else would dare?
Who else dares dream of the grift, of the crook in her back and her eye, adorned with cockleshells and weeds?

Shall we throw ourselves into lover's comforts,
Or shall we throw our dowry to the wind?
We could buy our nights and bury our days under a setting sun.
But who will spare us the time for gossip of Buonarroti? Who would speak but we?

For who could resist such terrible guises -knock kneed, knotted hands and knitted hair-
When happiness resists such cellophane flowers of gunsmoke and beer,
A lighter matter, lighter fluid,
Could clear up these airs?
And no one would care.

For who else would care to do such things? With such heavens surrounding them, I wouldn't see any other way.

No one would know that we are but stardust and angel's breath. No one would dare dream of such fancies. Not when the grift awaits. 

I'd rather stumble in shambles to the corner lot. Here lay an opium den in a heather of glass. Here lay shyness in face of the grift.