Death Kiss
I like to sleep,
where my lover once swore
she wore flowers in her hair;
I like to sleep in,
when nobody knows
what a fairy ring is
or the song in my head
or the difference
between a deathwish
or the cigarette
in my fist, or the snakes
at my feet
who dream to hiss.
I sleep in a lot,
wandering through drain pipes
and bible-belts
yearning for sex like a
Holy communion, but
our bodies are filth-star-dust
ready to explode all over
and begin again.
I sleep where poets dry hands
on each others backs
when Frida Khalo's pose
makes men wetter than a kiss
where poetry becomes
this spiny intangible thing
curling round these veins
until I end up choking
out a baby, a whiny crying spade
And when I try to sleep,
she rings like a rose posing
before Frida Khalo; because
It was not my choice to stay
or sleep the stars away
and what I really mean is I wanted to
stay up all night drinking coffee
kissing Picasso, painting alone
watching Frida with the knife
cutting up pieces of my heart
who once was a kiss
left for the only one I love
and now I am dreaming
all about it.
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