Iím not jealous of your pet executives ó
their coma therapy, their new guitars.
The latest boyfriendís hardly seventeen,
isnít that what the tabloids say?
In the cheap hotel, the heaps of magazines ó
You Canít Go Back to Woop Woop, sobs
the big print. And the speed jerking
up the spinal column to its spasm above.
Now the sea heaps itself on the pillow
with its wacky promises, and youíre floating
through the ceiling again. Tell sex to go
back to the playpen where it came from. Your
futureís waiting: suburbia loud with radios,
telling you to wake up now, and do the shopping!