How easy to pick a slick,
oily and brown
and as I fall down the face that I see
is me looking at me
falling up.

And so what side am I on?
the slippery ***** of hope
against hope,
I hope so.

But the faces pass,
like
ships in the night,
no recognition signals,
no semaphore, one on
the way up and one
heading to the floor.

When I pick a slick
I'm slick,
I look for the one with
the rainbows on
and though I still fall up,
fall down,
the colours I see
remind me
that all is not what
it could be,
it could be
oily brown.