Psycho-pompous, under
its world of silver-fingered spirits

uplifting skirts, a terrible soul
tearful no more tears at

its past, shedding its flesh
like the coats of an onion, depends

on the opinions of none, only
one’s glance being drawn to

scars for so long hidden,
too long given their shirk, how this whorl

abandoned whole works to abandon
every last remnant

of the ending world which
abandoned it first! You’d look decent

beaded with brunet sweat, bearded with
the cotton of a tossed

pillow’s mourning regret,
fought and fraught with what’s left, and yet now,

believe me, the only thing I feel
is gravity, weighty

absence’s crushing wheels
pushing me away, cues up curses

of tunes whose blistering choruses
are cures revealed by my

wounds, ruinous walls of
out-of-tune guitars licking at my

drawers, all attitude and balls, wailing
while filing away fangs

drawing hard down my arm
the milk of the moon, making it moan

in the backseats of stolen cars, blurred
making out making off

with soft splinters of fist
trickling insignificance into

whistling pools of wistful sentiment
wishing for nothing else

since but to be someone
else’s memory, wanted again

after lost, an intense argument
forgiven, foraging

for wealth in forests of
riches which burn pages of debts for

their sweet fragrance, love’s peasants incensed
at doubt going up in

smoke, forced to face the truth
we’re not stronger when alone, no, but

strongest the two of us on our own,
doing that for which we

were born, performing parts
torn from another’s version of this

split existence our substance only
mirrors, acts cracked in half.