and sometimes i can’t drown out the noise
—another couple shots;
the only thing left: a lingering agoraphobic ache,
medicated staccato shake.
and there are numbers lying on my desk,
but i can’t add subtract- a simple divide to pay the bills.
and there’s a dead man staring back: i buried him
in the curve of my spine, but he has crawled up each vertebra,
scaled the well of my pupils.
and i can’t masturbate with you in my head—
this Freudian assault on my senses
—but i want to sleep until this massacre has passed: this sallow, waxen-
stop- acrid fear lodged in the back of my throat, and it’s so heavy.
and my hands tear habitually at my face, rip through my hair;
and i can’t stand the circumference of my neck waist thighs;
these disfigured emotionally-stunted cum stains:
gaping empty eyes staring up—
somewhere beyond the horizon is a vestigial white hope.