A Passion Automatic

We wake up eating cigarettes and pissing blood,

tying each other's necks with nooses of love

made from the finest hairs off the horse's tail

that failed to scream at a string's embrace.

Asleep, laughing at ourselves

dead sunless visions of spirals

and ghosts making love to the sound

of a liver sobbing in its drink.

All necessary adjustments made

we strap into our private throes

eager eyes to the stars counting: ten,

nine,

eight,

seven,

six,

five,

four,

three,

two,

one.

Playing the Palace

"It's gonna hurt."

"I don't want it to."

And what got made, was broken too.

Kiss Each Other Clean

Love, I have discovered, is not a matter of chemistry. It is an exercise in touch, sight and sound; your "lover" undressing, his or her panting breath on your shoulder, the mirror images in each other's irises, falling in love to the sound of a man singing, and falling out of it to the wailing of his guitar.

I was happy just to be with you.

You were happy for me.