disOrdered

dAdA scrambled: too late this night.
No you to superglue the bits together
so, destined to drift aimless,                
frameless, 
thru’ the remaining years
contemplating 
razorblades and pills

but
undecided & too scared.

An emotionless voice in my head 
plays in an endless loop:
Why kill time when you can kill yourself?

Wondering 
who you are fucking tonight, 
this night, 
as the bed beckons: 
empty and unforgiving... 

If there was someone, anyone: 
doesn’t matter who... 

Just someone to hold my hand, 
stroke my fingers till I fall asleep 
till the blankness swoops down 
and devours me/ till I am deVOID 
of all these X-S emotions. 
 
Meantime, 
Kurt Schwitters is building 
a random construct 
in my small intestine: 

not that I am exactly hurting, 
not that I am missing you...
not even the bitter musk scent 
from the crook of yr neck... 
or the soft contours of yr belly... 
or the wry twist of yr smile... 
or the ink stains on yr fingers... 
or the wistful look in yr left eye 
when you waxed euphorically, 
full of bitter-sweet one-days.  

No, I never loved yr idiosyncrasies, 
I never swooned with lust 
to the lyre-song 
of yr own peculiar idiolect.  

This is false memory: 
out to destroy the delicate balance 
of my being-here-now-ness.  

Some nights 
the loneliness bites 
chunks out of my brain.  

Here & now, 
I have not sunk that low.  
I am mindful of my breath, 
if bereft 
of metta.
  
I breathe into my hara 
and the illusion of tranquillity
is made manifest:
black and dense as syrup.

The emergency exit sign glows,
Liquid crystal green 
And so seductive.

Remember,
even the Buddha
tried to waste himself once.

He said:
paradise is for humming birds and fools.

Counting the breaths, 
the minutes, the hours, the days: 
I perceive myself to be 
beyond redemption. 

No insipid Christ could carry me.

I am a slut to my expectations: 
will spread my legs 
For any worn out old promise.

One, two, three, four, five: 
once you caught a fish alive. 
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten:
then you let it go again.  

Not waving, but drowning: 
a fish-hook thru’ my cheek, 
just under my right eye

Counting the hours till daylight 
the samhain moon 
burning thru’ the windows 
into the dull kernel of me.

La bella luna 
pregnant and laughing: 

she who oversaw 
our first velvet velcro fuck -
galaxies bursting 
out of your eyes,
filling my dull room 
with wondrous incandescence.   

Where are you this night?

Are you extinguished 
like some overburnt candle?  
Does yr beautiful head nestle 
into yr lover’s soft belly?  
Do the pair of you smile in your sleep, 
like cats that have had too much cream?  
 
There are three nightlights 
guttering in my window 
to keep the witches at bay.  

I stand in tadasana, 
trying to find my balance:

I’m a tree 
blown in random winds. 

I breathe slow and deep into my hara:

still counting, 
but the moon hardly moves
 
stirring a longing 
in my belly.