We eat ourselves alive
in Brooklyn, there was a house of joy
and the joy the joy the joy became
a terror to our sanities.
Everyone so happy, (pretending
freedom so well) that sometimes
forgetfulness would cover over our garbage – how we ate each other up,
enduring decay, communally. Covered our inadequate patterns
in the foul breath, the death gasps, of each other’s sweat glands,
ever dripping with big ideas.
—-
In my life, I have known
boys mainly. Some boys so tender
they become my flesh, even as
we traumatize one another
until the numbness let us go.
In the cold buzz of my memories,
their lips stand out above the
blur, the grave dirt; (the sex that once pop
made electricity) (but now only work) like all other
work. Marx and lips,
before the decay of feeling,
all that caused me excitement
and sends me off to destroy myself.
—–
I try to pick apart the
things that drive me;
I try to disarm my mind.
so I will not go mad.
But rare are the hours of
clarity, and foggy I
mostly live.
Cloud by cloud by wish by wish,
planning away the inevitable,
all the time.
