Demons stroke my face
There, there now – that’s not so bad
As I lay here, shaking
Pushing all the stuffed animals
Onto the bed, in a pile
To somehow try to compensate
For the lack of you on the futon,
Because you’re not here
You could be anywhere
But the demons are,
Those old familiar fears
That you always smell first.
Archive for May, 1995
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Isn’t it tragic to be so wise
And profess to know the answers,
Yet I help myself to my most delicious lies
And avoid mirrors like they were cancer.
Can’t get it right – I am still hollow
Inflated, life like sleight of hand,
No deserters; the blind still follow
This blind man across the sand.
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