To lower myself to their watch
with their black eyes,
knowing eyes,
would be bad on their part.
There's no love poems,
just eyes and lifeless bodies,
non feeling, not levitating
like you would think.
I moulded myself out of nothing,
they might use me
but I am their muse.
Their Medusa.

She took a dive
on a particularly lonely night.
It’s when women play.
Pristine girls who pick brains
dream of ******* in the rain,
wives in the same predicament,
sixty years with a man
go ferociously with the familiar.
The man was now like cadaver,
traces of him in her footsteps
though she had a woman’s tongue
on hers now and liked it.
Perhaps nights would never be
so lonely again.

I myself am vacant.
He is in it for the violence,
she is lazulite sea,
I still see his bullet wounds.
You know it’s sultry,
me finding my red refuge,
skin in blood satin
like live people will notice.
I plead to join them,
for the ripples of my dress
to be like the winds
killing jewels and men.
For I myself am vacant.

I see so many addictions,
special labels.
These clean surfaces
are getting old,
I want to be white dust
but I fall away
and you can clean me up
but I’ll still clutter
in my own little way.
The day is like a dream
except I don’t sleep.

Somebody give me a spine.
I need support for my head
and all of its rocks
that are no longer stars.
It doesn’t know what friends are
and so became unlit
like pebbles from another time.
I can’t think straight,
surely I’m a useless case.
I’m dissociative.
Where can my spine be?

When you think it is over
there’s a gushing light
and then it’s blue.
I can make out my clothes,
my covers in the shadow
but it’s dark and I
I just want it to be over.

I lurk on the surface;
a two headed monster.
Though I hold one eye open
it’s hard to depict
who is true, who is of use.
Whether they are using me
or are useful to see
how it will go down when
I find a similar fish.