Sometimes when I dream of babies
They’re oozing pus from their pores.
And sometimes I arrive quite late,
Clad only in a ratty old swimsuit.
Some nights are just finally like that.
On other nights the slick big rigs
Fly slow circles over L.A.X.
And lovers on Santa Monica Pier
Smell diesel as it falls from the sky.
Such things, like God, can’t be explained.
Now I lay me down to sleep.
It’s a bit like playing Russian Roulette,
Bullet my brain, chamber the spinning night.
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