dreams
love me. sitting in the kitchen. replaying roles.
Baby
gorgeous, in her suit, in her boots, I look, coming raw: “Your aura is stronger,
have you felt pain?”
“Please
stop!”
“I’ll
walk away.”
“Please
don’t!”
gambling,
sources bleeding, eating a fetish, loving death.
I
skate backwards. I touch a spot. Love ain’t dying in me.
“You
do this often?”
“Why
should it matter?”
“I
play for keeps.”
“I
play for fun. I keep drifting. I haven’t found one to capture pain.”
“What
do you need?”
I
gaze into a tunnel, it seems so pentagram, I look intently —
“I
need you to play pretend until it hurts?”
such
disrespect, to imagine how it moves, like rage inside a monkey: hands, wealth,
more unsteadiness—flights, laughs, eyes burning, incense wafting.
“Now
what?”
“More
in your favor.”
such
elegance.
