Her and Him

Here comes the water weeping,
I shake to satisfy the thirst
of dirty prophets and their beasts alike.
My voice is lost in the
clatter of the living and the dead.

When we close our eyes
we see fire and ice,
sex and religion,
holy and cursed,
fabrications of a mind twisted in pain.

I tempted death,
even laughed with him
in a bar shaped like a
chicken egg
in a small town called Nantucket,
near the swamps down there and to the left.

We ate gin
and shot some pool
with several showgirls
from across the street,
a little joint called the Opus Lounge,
where you can watch
silk slink off a table
23 times an hour.