Replace those lyrics airing themselves into this open, inebriated air where the conversation flows like a pour from a rotten tap, foamy and stuttering with pause. Fleetwood Mac serenade. The banal drive of pop palp, why not just call it “Sex on a Stove” and have Stevie serenade Lindsay, have Christine McVie lament John. Their ribald rivalries sung throatily while the glass empties and the murder of willpower drains certainty. Such gadfly wondering, oh just smash the glass, unfasten the clasp and let loose tenuous yearning as if it were greedy gravity swallowing the sky, upending the clouds hungrily and devouring in this cowardly neon where the gleam of attraction is refracted, bent, cornered into climax fevers. What a vicious bit of hustle. What a dogeared page in the novel of tongue wandering. Let them write about this and sing of their of prostrate lusts, of dreams served like dimes dropped into the kinetoscope where they peep into worlds more uninhibited than what they’ll find at the bottom of that lace legged glass.
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