You could rent me
Or just use me
For all your needs and wants
Take me in your pocket
Along with your twenty-six
Dollars and eighty-three cents
To lands I can only hope to dream about
Like a place in Russia
Or the Beaches of France

But Carolina,
Where have you gone?
I send for you
Almost every night with a ring
I end up just pacing around
Tone, I sweat and worry
Are you hurt Carolina?
Have you found another outlet?
To share and talk through

Am I not man enough
Does my testosorone move
In too petty of a pace
Day after day
Down and down
At least Tchaikovsky keeps
Me from pushing
I feel as if my feeling
Have become obscure and

A need out
I make my escape
At four A.M.
I wander the streets and follow the
Stare around the block
The stores have long made their goodbyes
And soon will the stars that
Guide me down these streets

It is also at this time
When husbands smell of whisky and
Wine and beat their wives before
The light can shine any hope
I walk into and newly open bakery
And cry

Carolina show yourself
I’m still here
You sense of being to me has
Become useless and seem to
Hinder my emotions
Up there as useless as the fading stars
And to no end
I pace around and make my escape

I leave my twelve Grand
And any hope of being behind
As I get carried on
These waves with hopes of
Never returning home

Burroughs must have been a happy man
In Tangiers when it lasted

by Jacob Rembrandt

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