It’s the Same Thing Every Night

The woman who never forgets a face
Forgets mine. I’m at the That Which Does Not Exist
Supper Club – everyone’s there.

I’m seated next to the dead man who is
Raving about the dirt and worms
Served in a flowerpot. I order the lamb religiously,

And am on a first name basis with the five-fingered waiter
Who never writes anything down.
What a mysterious place, I think, and perhaps

Everyone’s thinking the same thought –
Perhaps nobody’s thinking anything, after all.
I cannot judge phantoms, I decide,

And I sip my bloody Mary as if it’s flaming.
Why do the lights have to be so dim? It’s like a funeral
Parlor at midnight where my watch has stopped.

Why, nobody has a face – they were just a bunch of necks
With forks disappearing in the dark and coming back empty.
Were they feeding some fetch only they could sense?

I began to be sucked up by the ceiling fan – I knew
This would happen. It goes on like this for some time,
And then I’m pushed through the grease trap

Where I end up in an alley in some town I can’t name.
The headless people won’t help me home,
And I walk the moors until I hunger,

And there’s a nice quiet place to stop for supper again.
It’s like being born with the same name as your father,
Or like washing dishes for a living just to get a look at the kitchen.