Welcome To The Bottom of the Erotic.
The Mood Swings
Pure Chemical Hormone.
I lose skin and I
am watching the curtains
the red too fresh, too fake
the black like insomnia,
the artist’s friend, climbing in
for psychotic kicks.
I make my reflection in crescent nails
I find that
I am knocked into a caricature
of a caricature:
we are the archetypes, sitting behind finished
portraits, waiting for the hags to confirm
what we knew first. how exhausting
it will be to exist
for another forty or fifty years;
I am not suicidal but I want
a break from my head, a break from
the false things that go mad
when I am not looking, when I am trying