if i document that which tandem existed
(it only ever was when i willed it to be)
does it fulfill my end of Shylock's bargain
with neither pint nor pinprick to go to waste?
mistress of the sleight of hand,
she seeks a remnant to manipulate.
if she wanted, she could take my cataclysms
(gloss over my scrapes with paint opaque)
and make with them something gratifying, satisfying
something else electrifying
marigolds with severed xylems sent in cases to the dying-
if she wanted.
her decision twirls until the lights
she's vacancy and i'm uninviting-
we talk about ugly things.
birthmarks and the uncensored human condition,
the scar on my upper lip and spines of dead foxes.
i tell her those are the reason i write.
she laughs her disdain
and kisses a bruise on my shoulder,
a perfect mimicry of her begonias.
she pauses to caution me
that aging is heinous and angels can fly
but then the stage is set and her eyelashes
i was to beset her- what's the use?
she was nothing but a
i only regret to lose the
lurid slither of bone on bone
i seek a replacement to manipulate
as moonset sends me, its disciple, a salutatory
pour me another shot of moonshine.
when you wax vivacious and syphilitic
and the crysanthemum's wilted, i'll come.