Ennui

Ennui
There is no such thing as the self. Just space occupying the appearance or lack thereof.

[A story about the first time in Monterey,
and every other place I've lived since then.
]

When the disgust sits in
At the bottom of the well
There, a stomach twists to fit the mold
We lose sight of trying to find ourselves

There is a point where we lose control
And try to grab hold of the rope
But there isn't any illusion left
The cards have dealt, all the same

Nothing is next to kin
Isolation sits at the table bell
And she rings for some marmalade, so I'm told
A semblant tale that compels

A ticking goes unnoticed as we chase the goal
Attention soldier, your lover mopes
At the unsightly nature of a deficit that can't get
Anywhere near satisified, but who is to blame
If it's all the same, another cigarette candles
A flame into the air and forgets it is even there
So we are the strange flickering that handles
The terribly loving luminating lingering languorous affair

And the stars looked very different yesterday, lull
On top of a mountainside, he copes
With every little detail that fades away, he let
Go of the rain behind the cloud named Aimé