cigarettes and speed don't work anymore

dancing with dali in stocking'd feet.
he puts his hand up my skirt
then is appalled by the blood
(running like teardrops)
he finds there.
soft clocks watch
my everyday activities
but what more can i expect?
when nirvana is just
a flash of maybes.

having coffee with freud in all the wrong places.

he wants to sort out my
intimacy issues until i say
"old habits die hard, but
i will happily lay them out
and sleep
with their
corpses."
and the clouds, pregnant with rain,
wait for him to run.

linking arms with jesus cos he's the only one with clean needles.

he follows my lead, feeding
the ghosts, we say "hi" to
the guys that
we know.
the lap and slap of the rivers edge
as erotic as an invitation
to cunnilingus, but he's like me
and prefers illusion to despair.
cigarettes & speed don't work any more.