Spreadsheets from Space Junk by Sam Lou Talbot

SPREADSHEETS

All words were pointless anyway, if I could have held you, if I could hold you, what would I say? What were you wearing? Nobody knew you were coming but me. And nobody else could see. All there was before me was some material glory – call it your skin. God, I know that I’m not made of rose petals, and neither are you. But what was it all about? My love, darling. Are you coming? Oh, are you coming? Oh, are you coming? Oh, are you coming? Yeah, in the late afternoon. What will you wear? Why can’t I think better thoughts? Why are you filling my mind with, muh, muoah, muoh. I love to watch you get undressed. And I would gladly pend my afternoons doing that. But instead, I’ve got to get the spreadsheets done. And I don’t want to do that love. Are you coming, are you coming around? So, I can do something else, a distraction, a provocation, love. You take my mind of it, this obligation. Microsoft Word fixation. Oh love, I would rather, I’d rather be doing it with you on paid time. It’s the only revolutionary thing we can do now. You can go out and strike, put your yellow vest on. Or you can come back to mine, get under the covers, and get undone. We can love one another, one another, and love one another, and love one another. We can love one another right.

 

• Alternative
• counterculture
• folk
• indie
• post-punk
• singer-songwriter
• Glasgow