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enablers - for jack: a philippic lyrics

so maybe it is your turning 40, jack, that ramshackle coolsville floating across your scowl as the sign in this bar blinks a demanding, red sin. all the boys and girls are diamonds at the rounds of their tables, mewling under the jazzscape like intellectual pedants at some parisian feed circa the lost generation, but we both know the risk factor in here
is lacking brass. the foreheads are tales manqué, and just too smooth for a surrealist trapped here in the mission night’s grabass élan

a veritable cupid’s last rites when you, jack, are thinking, ‘how her hair f_cks when she walks,’ the curls buoyed on each elaborate placement of the heel. is she gene tierney in laura?or is she just another w_nk coming to a slow boil on the can’s back burner?

i can only wonder what that off_shoot glance entails; a handsome though churlish grin becomes a tintype of poise and intimacy. your lone countenance thrust out from the pleasing lacquer of dimmed sconces ___ no, wait a minute, check that

not thrust out but blazing through this fleshbath like a f_ckin’ lodestar. your near_avuncular status pitying this middleclass assembly of shoegazers and morose frauds. because you were jonesin’ long before they ever took the so_called pipe of the quarter century mark

you suffered through long and dreary new hampshire winters, hopped up on c_cktails that would have a pharmacist scratching his head. christ, even you didn’t know after a spell, but that was the whole d_mned point: departure… zeal… a f_ck_off con brio
you suffered further still through staid new england airs. the cabinetmaker’s son gone awry, the guy who fled central casting and landed in clorox hq’s, dried out fifteen years but still awash in the proverbial fists of your own mania. but these bushleaguers aren’t concerned ___ it’s fickle p_ssy they’re after, and who can blame them?

your own renewed curiosity agrees with the catholic schoolgirl, jack. though your eyes and innards speak elsewhere: in fractured spells of looms and darts stitching the crooked wrinkled sheets as the breathing coalesces with the scent of right after

that cigarette of yours mistakenly takes on a curious charm, its taste subsumed and full ___ and it ain’t an after_meal one, either, boy, because when the pecking order has morphed from the assorted glyphs of old girlfriends’ faces to that dead air beside you? there are no longer any valentino’s, sir

- enablers lyrics

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