Blacked out words on torn sheets of lined paper I scrunch up and tell you to plant inside your belly for good luck. Mushroom clouds in your head and mushroom clouds between your legs that do kickstands and cartwheels as you look at him the way you wish he’d look at you. With the curtains drawn and the music turned down low, your fingers dance along mountainous ridges and when the past, present and future align and sing to the same tune, it’s as if all the stars in the sky were the eyes of God gazing deep inside of you, but you don’t feel ashamed, no, you just flower even more until you’re as open as you need to be. When the electricity leaves your fingers making your toes tingle, there comes a little piano music followed by a thousand days of strangeness. No horizons and then a horizon. Daylight and then you spinning in circles while I struggle to walk in a straight line because beer tastes too nice to say no. And then I close my eyes and see those doctors appointments from a time before. Those days and hours and seconds not knowing what was wrong. But nothing was wrong. Nothing has ever been wrong. It’s the world outside of my mind that’s fucked, not me. Never has been. Never will be. So make me up a cocktail as I write furious poetry. Make it with blood and pus and spit and engine oil and then pour it down my throat as I attempt to masturbate into the mouth of a ghost that isn’t there. What day is this? What year is this? Am I drunk or just confused? Is it you or is it her? When you bite your lip and dig those nails into the palms of your hands, is it what you want, or is what you want beyond even the means of God? That God who watches but never intervenes? When I watch and do nothing, you just call me a pervert, but I can’t help it. I need to see you touch yourself because without your beauty, my neuroses take hold and one by one the words lose their meaning.