New York nights

Mind numbing, mentally crushing,
Membrane sloshing noise.
Manhattan rumbled through night
And I never knew that.
Had suspected, had read it on t–shirts:
“The city that never sleeps.”
But didn't need to believe it.
The onliest sound I believed
Was the train pulling out,
Heard from 'bout 6 blocks away.
That was an all night sound.
Smooth, not chatter.
The noise was too noisy.
I mean noisier
Than noise had to be.
Noisier than the splash sound
Of the shore upon the roar of a 757
Taking the summer route.
Upon mom vex
Cause little kids don't listen.
Noise bigger
Than blockbuster videos
Playing in the next room
At the 4am matinee and the phone...
That was just noise.
I mean noisier
Than noise should be.
Not ear deafening, mind numbing,
Mentally crushing ,
Membrane sloshing noise.
Keithie and his boys walked
And talked
**** nights
But it was always distinct,
Not chatter....
'N' jersey girls
Didn't giggle at the freaks,
'Talianos sucking Corona bottles
Making crashes fill the street,
Never plugged the
Void of my nights
Because the void was silence.
Over in Bushwick,
The ice cream man pulled his truck
Over while, shall we say,
He got his popsicle sucked.
He pulled over his truck
But the song kept on,
All day, all night.
The song means
The ice cream guy's
Gettin' some
- It don't even mean ice cream.
Cause they hear the song
And there's no guy selling ice cream
From the truck.
'Sides, who got money
To be giving kids
Every time they hear the song woven
Between the sounds of car horns
And latin rhythms.
And the ice cream guy
Gets death threats.
Gotta get me a token,
Make the rumble of the 'A'
My lullaby.
Gotta escape to the womb of my room.
I never believed in New York nights.
I never slept in Manhattan before.
21 years,16 by the shore.
It may have taken a while to get used
To the silence,
The absence of sound through night
At my home
But I've never slept in Manhattan before.
It hurts.
It is hurting my head as I write this.
It is making my mind squeeze itself
Through a tiny doorway
Onto a massive stage
Where sound is disconnected
From action.
Each render themselves tiles
In the mosaic.
Pretty is the picture from far away.
Gotta get me a token,
Make the rumble of the 'A'
My lullaby.
Gotta escape to the womb of my room.
I never believed in New York nights.
Each tone drifts against
The next with nowhere
It would rather be.
No desire of dominance,
No call to signify nothing.
Gotta get me a token,
Make the rumble of the 'A'
My lullaby.
Gotta escape to the womb of my room.
I never believed in New York nights.