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.                                                    


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