Art, Sex, and Stupor

And in the midst of fake smiles and orgasms,

humans connected

on occasion,

regardless of the weather

and whether

we were paranormal,

ghosts stuck in chests,

breathing and coughing,

and smoking cigarettes

even though we hated the taste.

We impulse

art, sex, and stupor,

speaking in their respective languages,

giving over to

violent feasts or

vibrant fevers,

all consuming

in one way or another,

and I heard it all,

in my head,

the predictable needs,

the wants,

the words

forming in my brain

before spilling

out of your mouth

but I had been taught

it’s rude to interrupt

so I kept it all

under my red feathered hat

and reminded myself

to smile.

I grew weary

of being the back-up plan

or the girl that cancels

three minutes before

I was supposed to be there,

and I found myself

staring out the window

all the time again

trying to listen and soothe

the ugly self talk

and exorcising the harsh words

spat at me as

you held my face

to the ground,

dirt in my mouth-

though to be clear,

my spirit wasn’t in my body then,

it had already

gotten the fuck of there,

sitting in some dive

on the west side of London

drinking old fashions,

a nod to my brother

who had died

in the war with the spider,

and as the sun came up,

I wept into tea leaves

that foretold

the end of the capitalist pig

and the coming

of a new age of old magic.