MON CHÉRI

SCREW THE STARS

-- part the third

you like him better than the stars. lying on your backs and he's grinning with his sun-splotched mouth and you open him up, devour him. but he's watching the moon, baby. it loves him more than you can. then he tells you he can fly like this: back arched / burning against the hot metal hood of your '86 convertible / skin smellin' like gasoline / he's lightin' up like kerosine / it's not because of you, honey. grip him tighter but he's still lookin' up at the sky and he tells you, oh, it means more when he tells you they love you both one and the same. his lies taste better on your tongue: you kiss with your eyes open, and he doesn't notice 'cause he's too busy staring up & past at the firmaments / he looks back (down) at you and his eyes go flickerin' / dying out like candle wicks. you love him better than the stars, baby. but the stars don't care & neither does he.

- la doleur exquise

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