(1)
Let me be your Hazey Jane.
We will learn how to share cords and smiles,
Cigarettes and nightmares.
We are slow thirty-plus-years-old,
Who care only about sounds.
[The masts’ metal whisper in the midnight harbor,
And the gentle scratches of the gramophone needle,
Each time a record comes to its end]
(2)
Your eyes are two shiny records,
That share melodies in this moonless,
Dusty and tiresome late spring night.
Your hands are two soft-skinned angels,
Crafty in a “sound ’n’ love” making.
I've dreamt you, after smoking to long
On a small, flowery balcony,
In a high-ceiling, falling-apart Bauhaus apartment.
You may call me “Slow Jane”,
And I will answer you
With the off-beat tick tock
Of the nonexistent city clock.