In a comfortable fit in uncomfortable heat

projecting a storm on a sheet

we are the lost, this is our beat

drunk on the nectar the angels secrete


alone in the dark in a stranger's arms

seduced by the stranger's strangest charms

we are the lost, and these are our harms

self-inflicted strangeness, the strange self to calm


Like Ginsberg retelling Edgar Allan Poe

telling stories of shadows with eyes that glow

we are the lost, and this is our show

black leather, black lace, black stallion, black snow.


Injecting the memories with universal meaning

the good,  the band and the fleeting revealing.

we are the lost, it's your scene we are stealing

drunk on the secrets the angels are secreting.