Your daughter Lorca lead me upstairs for coffee where I saw you naked except for underwear bent over the stove boiling soba noodles. You chewed small pieces of sausages and fed them to a sick bird now nesting in your sink. For all this perhaps I was more nervous.
Detesting nostalgia you perfected the art of receiving only what may be discarded. Throwing away longings and ghosts to glimpse your masterpiece to leave you with a loneliness all your own.
Like a classic songwriter your poetry was great but your voice tattered from the first wearing. Like a classic poet your words still managed to crawl into hotel beds of unhappy women and afterwards you would sing their tragedies. I could never distinguish temples from laughter. Either way by the end you will have brought me down to my knees.
I HAZ GOES TO FIND THE MAN!
Chelsea Hotel #2 - Leonard Cohen
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