Hearts battered and hearts bend
and where’s my soul? Is it in my head?
That whole-life illusion, the sun
like so many chests, and deep breaths
observed by loved ones as you sleep
late at night –
raising and falling,
and that moon, and the stars,
nature, god, women and wine,
that illusion –
that dream precipitates,
forms a thick layer on your mind,
in your broken, battered heart.
Your soul never suffers! Never
is the question for suffering
in your soul to be brought up;
wrought up or dredged from some
black
miasmal
hole
you thought was long gone, long
covered up.
And you wake, with that flavour
in your mouth, that grit
in your teeth, the punch
of smoke, Cigarettes, countless Cigarettes,
flirting with you
and with Nausea, while
Desperation goes to the bar for a drink.
I failed already, and so did you,
I gave in; I didn’t go the whole way, I stepped back,
but you,
you stepped in.
Toes wet.
Wanna make a bet
that I am
the first person
to last for
ever?
My mind has as much to spin as my heart
has hot burning coals, smoking
and smoldering
and boiling everything
it sees. Why can’t I be
cool like all those gatos you see sleeping
in dark alleys? Drinking warm milk out of saucers,
stepping between the pillars of legs underneath
a glass ceiling, in a maw of shopping malls,
wrapped in highways and asphalt,
with a smog cough;
some grotesque Godmas present we are too scared to open.
Well, we sit and breathe smoke to the lake,
sing to the moon,
lift the bottle and try to sleep it away.
