Motheatin’

In the dream it was my birthday
Dinge-yellow lighting
In the house by the suburbs

I waited so patiently:
Groping at consciousness
For the apparition at the top of the stairs

I swaggered.

_My clit_ swaggered:

A drunk oyster.
Festering ‘round the pearly notion.
The blondeish hero reeked:

Perfume and futility
The smell of long dead love-making
A bloated corpse, in lukewarm water
The bulbous eye of Suise,
Without any yellow petals.

Drenched and dripping
She’d taken hold of the swan’s bleached neck
Plunged under this downpour:
Drowning, alone again,
Without so much as a peck.

The butterflies slammed up within the threshold
Bodies in-frame Oozing gutsy milk,
Wings flapped on either side
Feverishly, and for the last time.

I am the silkworm
A mulberry taxidermy
Of useless, unwanted body
Livin’ on in no one’s memory
No body, either.

I am looking at my old pony
Bashed in on the doorframe
I wondered why I ever let her drive it

The chance was blown,
By this average prostitution.

Baby says to me:

“Just who do you think is _not under the influence_ here?”

Oh right,
Alright
OK.

No  rainbow socks o’er creaming calves
No  errant motes of woolen sweater,
No doors unlocking,

I am endlessly the prisoner
Of this fictitious doorstep.

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