She is dying.
She doesn’t know what that
means except it pleases her.
She wanted to find some people, bind them
to her so they could not leave. She could then be
freely alone, go loopy mad.
But her imagination was not extraordinary,
it limited itself to loveworn
songs and a commercial fear of cancer.
By nightfall she slept to forget that
her mind was a fancy dancer,
that her body was a network of melanotic growth.
Why does it happen and when, dreams become strange
and the world unreal?
No satiated breeder of words this fabulous tragedy,
only a necessary product (profit and loss)
of a quiet time in a poet’s life.

Sonny thankyou
sang for

and that night
Wayne and I
applegreen stomach
velvet bottom

fuckin’ beauty eh

and although I was
one of the boys
I craved her
long long hair her

I’m a man
can’t you see what I am

Could you do it? Could you
metamorphose me
slug-like as I am
into a thing more awake,
more wilful?

In disciplined situations
(chatting movies seminars
eating excreting fucking riding
on buses most waking moments)
I imagine that a bed materializes
and I’m allowed to curl
up in it alone and sleep
a healing sleep undisturbed
and when I wake I’ll not be tired,
my legs and arms will move easily
my mind will be clear, agile.

Because as it is
I think the phantasmagoria
of my nights belong to a
conspiracy of my friends.

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