War times and magic,
the albatross suffers
from the working will
of a wanting world.
Dance me out of your spirit,
if you can honey,
with the rythmn moving
you ever closer though
to my open stomach.
Gothic aphrodisiacs,
blue amphetamines
with the red stripe
down the middle,
hot lesbians on the subway,
tearful goodbyes in airports,
dial 9 to phone a number outside
this hospital room,
tortured minds stumbling down alleyways, and
still many nations bleed
on the cement of our
white collared bellies.
Swear words in German
like fuck and cunt etched
into the wall of the bathroom stall
I sat in for three hours
while he decided whether to take
me prisoner as his hanged man:
crypts of dead pharisees
and godly hallucinations.
Creep through you,
slither in and out,
vertigo prophecy
and cheap liquor.
Goddamn you,
send me a white lie sign
because the Devil in me
is taking over,
and you like that,
don't you?
Anarchy and sex drives
just make me want to hide
in my closet sometimes,
close the door and breathe
so very heavily in the dark,
which I do offen
when you upset me.
Hide and seek,
theatre erections and perfume
that reminds me of winter and cum.
Wet bodies,
a tattoo of Ishtar,
the goddess of war and sex,
on the back of your neck:
fucking in the bed of a pick-up truck,
in the grass behind your house,
on the concrete in your driveway,
even when I didn't want it,
you never heard me anyway
so I just shut up after awhile.
True in my memory,
as if time wore suspenders
and spoke with a cockney accent,
though in my experience she keeps
her mouth shut to spare you of her pain,
a deep red trench of grief and impotence,
and this I understand,
because her eyes give away
many of her secrets.
She was raped in that small red room
as a trumpet
sat on it's stand
and the ceiling fan whined about the view.
And yet,
she crawled out of the void
and re-entered the earth's atmosphere,
awakened magic through volcanic rebirth,
as I suppose her father had instructed her to do,
before he died
and was under the ground
somewhere in Michigan.
