Opium, Special K and horror stories


Four fifteen.

Rugs over the couch and your elbow on the floor
waiting

I said: divide me, put your needle in
my arm, consume me, make
that you never forget me. I wanted to love

you, I wanted to rob you, I wanted your lover, 
I wanted your skin to catch my breath
I wanted to warm you. You wanted to calm me,
I lost track of time. Woke up with my elbow in 
your wrist. The silence wasn't right and I thought about
Rimbaud, Nietzsche and with my lacerated arm under the blade

I forgot to count the strokes. I was expanding my terrain,
poppy seed grew from my lungs, my neck was a wasteland of quicksand where
everything sinks in. How can I be alive when tequila

worms can live of my blood?

The wool was woven with the hair of nymphomaniacs.
Pressure on my wrist, you lift me up and enter me deep.
With bubbles around my tongue I declare myself a legend in the making,
I fall back on the couch and rest in lust on your handwoven
Persian opium rugs.

Five thirteen.