Someone should tell you that past-tense hellfires
can’t be smothered by strange hands
or one-night stands
or those pretty pretty silver blades. Those bromides will rot you
in the same vein that swallows the anesthesia.
You’re on the road to purgatory, but it’s paved
with revelrous swigs of spiked gin, tantamount
to self-immolation of a most unholy sort.
You’ll spend your mornings the same way
you pass your sordid nights: hungover,
from the ceiling by constricting threads that
move your limbs in staccato slices of emaciated air.
There’s a certain courtship to it all. Left, left,
how many till you get lucky? You’re losing dignity
and your thumb only goes one way.
It’s a match! (somewhere a scheming database snickers)
Ah, romance! Reciprocal lust
gilded by “I read your bio how wonderful you have
a dog/a degree/a dogma for games such as these”.
Coffee, blood-red mouths,
hands charged with intention brushing with nonchalance
two people in a one-bedroom flat. This is whirlwind,
this is passion, two fingers that moved
in one direction
with a sensual inflection
and dubious discretion-
someone should cut your strings.
Not for life’s sake- what a pitiful cause. We’re all fading
some faster than others who worship their vital signs.
But if you keep traveling that way, feet stuttering
on the gnarled bones and bleached roots, you may meet
him along the way. And who’s to say he won’t take your hand
try to lead you away, promise you another land
with clement air untainted by that thickening smoke
belched from the pyre of passing souls? Don’t even try
to swear your faith to your path. You never could resist the chance
to mistake a sepulchre for a bed.