Visions and visitors

Drip young,
we wept in the morning
when the haunted stranger
with the ripped knapsack
left out of the basement window,
forgetting his red bandana and
taking the whiskey out of the liquor cabinet.

Ghost stories for kids,
the Druids in their black dresses
let loose in the graveyard,
pant under the night sky
and then left in the ditch
to die at sixteen.

Ginsberg left me hungry,
climb the mount
and surrender to visions of
blood spills and iconography.
Kill the creep,
martyr the saint,
and suck the angels dry,
just another day
in the hump backed whale,
breathing and sweating crazy.

Enter the Big Top,
split me right down the middle,
female and male,
freak that I am,
missing you and the monster,
and the shadows in my mirror agree.

My dreams are waking up
and demanding
to talk to management.
Let me in,
to smoothe you over
and forget the darkness
between us,
at least till the sunrise.