Ghost

i am
my
own
ghost

i am haunted
by
my
own
being

i am terrified
at the sound of
creaking floorboards at night

because
i know

it is the sound of
my footsteps
toward the door

frightened
as i
slowly
turn the knob
and storm into the evening avenues

parting with
my last innocent notion

i whisper through the walls at night- you'll never be free

you'll never be free of me

The Idiot's Ball

she dances like a fool at the idiots ball

gracelessly fueled
by
cocktails
and
glasses of wine

she knocks over the records

she falls

there will be bruises to remind her
of what she won't remember

drunken ballerina in love with mistakes

she dances when she drinks
and she dances often

tone-deaf
she sings along
with overplayed
Top 40
club pop

her feet smash the floor
like kamikazes

her arms
whip through the air

she knocks into the stereo

she falls

Standing In A Burning House

i
have been spending too much time
looking for a fire extinguisher
when
the door
is a clear six steps away

Still Hooves

a soft fire in the air
burning gloriously

beyond the glistening branches
still standing monuments
gentle jaws
graze on straws of hay

i wish they could ride with me

this trail
wherever it may end
would suit well the thunder of their gallop

but the streetlight turns
and they stay

and i do not

This Poor Ol' Corpse's Heart

it misses the way we used to sit

and breathe together

inhaling and exhaling

a hundred thousand times a night

 

some nights

more

 

full of life

full of love

pumping blood and vodka into our tickled cheeks

filling each moment with laughter and music

we danced

we fucked

we played card games

we fucked again

i felt your pulse

and you

were

my pulse

there was

a feeling of peace inside my chest

it seemed like something in the world was

finally right

like you were the first good thing that ever happened to me

and

the last

now 

that was a long time ago

buried deep

and marked with a gravestone

but

this poor ol' corpse's heart

misses the way it

used to beat

Now Is The Winter Of Our Disco-tech

streets become narrow
and sidewalks vanish

layers are important

heavy socks
and the right pair of boots

keeping with the wardrobe
but utilitarian

it's fine to be fashionable
however
it is best not to hit the dancefloor with wet feet

Satan Lives

in the darkest recess of my soul
he waits for me
to let down my guard

but
i will not
tonight

and this
upsets him

he gnaws at the back of my brain
and whispers devilishly into my left ear

"you don't need them," he says
"you are better than them"

i bitchslap him across the face and tell him to
shut the fuck up

call him whatever you like

Beelzebub
Prince of Darkness

i call him
Ego