There was blood in her chambers,
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She was spilling love from a hole in her heart.
Derelict angels with broken harps,
We couldn’t even play the blues.
We stumble the streets top-heavy
With rusted halos straining our necks;
Pockets full of shrooms picked dripping
Wet from insect sweat
And swamp water filling our shoes.
We watched the black Rorschach clouds
Hanging in the metal pre-dawn sky
Sharing the personal insanities we saw.
Boney, underfed cherubs selling our food stamps
For more, “no-time.”
Where blue seconds would not smother us
Like children murdered in their blankets
As they dreamed of growing old.
And a glistening spider web was fastened
From my heart to her libido,
To be resolved on our psychiatric bed.
Where our tangled flesh and bone
Would glide and grind.
I kissed the muscles of her mouth;
Sensitive flesh tickled tentacles of the mind.
A hateful passion beaded opiates from our pores
In salty drops of sex.
My eyes were bending, stretching, and hammering
Through a fog more dense and slow than swamp dreams.
Scraping away smolder by the handful.
Scooping armloads with invisible hands.
This is forever,
This place of shy creatures.
I like to think that it was only a dream
And that this is only a poem.
Dedicated to Scarlet,
Wherever you are.