You. Her. She. The bottle and a banshee and a priest. A will-o’-the-wisp and the gleam of painted lips all puckered up and ready for the kiss. No poetry and then a little poetry. No women and then your image that comes sauntering into view behind the back of my blacked-out eyes. In schools, they preach hide the soul, and then work comes along and drills it in a little deeper. But art liberates, and good art is the answer to all that ails us. So maybe take me by the hand and walk these streets with me until we can’t feel our feet, yeah? Maybe if you want you’ll come along with me on a journey someplace strange until we can’t remember who we were to begin with, yeah? Maybe you’ll let me want you, and the more my heart burns as a result, the more you’ll see that…