taste this

the filament was thin and strong
but brittle and so the end came
with a flash of megawatts

yes the closet is full of old clothes
the colored threads unraveling
the scattered holes burnt with cigarettes
leaky ink pen stain

a stack of your magazines
accumulates dust—those hoary books
of poems no one ever read

the leaves fall the water in the basement
rises old flashlights bulbless without
batteries float in a box

this one girl she threw me out
this other girl left while I was at work
I managed to get away from that woman

later there were the mannequins,
the ghost stories the girls who weren't
quite in this life—just murmurs

from the occasional french kiss
to the fingers up her asshole the demon
lover who loved me as a demon thick with juice

funny how the house is burning now
the vampire's girlfriend is screaming
in the bedroom there goes that book of poems

and in this hand gleams the razor
of my dreams still hungry still hot with
someone else's blood

A desperate review of internal emotional violence, this time, some twenty years ago now. And now I am if not at peace then at least I am not at war. Her song still playing in my heart, the hours counted and recounted. The end is surely a knife waiting for its place in the action of the story. A dream reviewed.