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.