spellcheckingmovies

The Weeknd

The week is drawing to an end
A discarded bottle my only friend
Foolish of me to expect a peck
After spending the evening caressing her neck
 
On my way home I fall and stumble
Laying in the bushes someone who wants a rumble
Fighting a shadow we go toe-to-toe
Later realizing we were fighting the same foe
 
Bloody and hungry I carry home
Wind beneath my wings repugnant stench in my hair
Sitting on the stoop I remember her fair
Gently touching my cheek
I wonder what will happen at the end of next week.

Letter to N.Y.

In your next letter I wish you’d say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays, and after the plays
what other pleasures you’re pursuing:

taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road goes round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl,

and the trees look so queer and green
standing alone in big black caves
and suddenly you’re in a different place
where everything seems to happen in waves,

and most of the jokes you just can’t catch,
like dirty words rubbed off a slate,
and the songs are loud but somehow dim
and it gets so terribly late,

and coming out of the brownstone house
to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,
one side of the buildings rises with the sun
like a glistening field of wheat.

—Wheat, not oats, dear. I’m afraid
if it’s wheat it’s none of your sowing,
nevertheless I’d like to know
what you are doing and where you are going.

- Elizabeth Bishop