Eastern Bloc pamphlet on mimeographed paper scraps. Don’t look back. Don’t cling to my arm if there’s someone around.
You could sing to me your struggles and hard times. You could sketch me out in realistic tones.
Is that an argument? Pictures stay silent. You can’t stop your satellites from spinning out of sight. We’re here to document short skirts and no road signs. You can’t stop your satellites from spinning out of sight.
You could sing to me, I’ll listen politely and roll the shirt sleeves up and down my arm. Like a shy kid, who stutters a sentence, but when you hear it, he’s awkwardly intense.
When Winter rolls around I’ll be gone, gone to the west. We can make a film, all about your part in wrecking my heart. Eastern Bloc avant-garde; baiting a bear. When the rounds crack the ground, tiptoe around.
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